Act I, Part XIV: The Black Blade
It was in the year 499 of the First Age that the rumour spread that Glaurung, the father of all dragons, had perished to the sting of the Black Blade of Doriath. And the word spread like fire across Beleriand, even to the halls of the Dwarves who remembered well the fierce onslaught of the dragon from battles long ago. And here Tinnurion learned that an elf of Doriath had slain the dragon wielding a magic black sword. For such is the nature of rumours to arrive to ears embellished or twisted and often they turn hearts wrongfully. So it was with Tinnurion, who made the rumour his own, and all his mind was bent on it, until at last he convinced himself that it was Maeglin or perhaps Eöl himself who had turned upon the dragon in the wild and had wielded Anguirel, the black blade of Nan Elmoth in his defence. Before long he and his two willing companions crossed the Ered Luin into Beleriand, pursuing the rumour of the Black Blade and the chance, however unlikely, of finding their master alive and well.
Three robed figures thus rode swiftly across the plains of Beleriand, following the dwarf road west to their home of old from whence they would travel southward along the River Aros, for they learned that the road into Nan Dungortheb and the crossings of the rivers between which it lay were too perilous to travel, and Tinnurion did not wish to pass through Doriath. But their hearts longed to venture into Nan Elmoth again, for upon their many wanderings since the day they left they had not known a home like it, and thus it passed that Tinnurion and his companions ventured deep into Nan Elmoth and found their home just as they had left it. So strong was their desire to stay thither that autumn passed before they returned their thought to the quest at hand. Come winter they at last left the forest, but with much desire to return hence.
After many miles following the Aros southward, they came upon the Fens of Sirion, where the ferryman of Doriath was wary to let them cross. But Tinnurion was skilled in wording, so that not only did the ferryman grant them crossing, but also did he divulge a more truthful telling of the tale of the Black Blade. From him they learned that he was not an elf, though elf-like perhaps in countenance, but one of the Edain and that he had perished and lay in a mound at the crossings of Teiglin near the forest of Brethil. The tale undid all their hopes and the many thoughts and dreams they had shared upon the road now seemed to them petty and they felt ashamed that they could have been so easily swayed.
And Tinnurion said to them:
‘Alas, our venture seems bereft of all hope. But I ask you, do we leave the most precious heirloom of the House of Eöl to wither away? To turn in time to rust and decay and take all memory of it with it? Nay, I refuse to return ere we have reclaimed Anglachel, the blade of Eöl our master. Little do I care for how this man came about it, yet care a great deal I do for its safe return.’
And his companions agreed, nodding silently, and together they crossed the River Sirion into Talath Dirnen, from whence their path would take them northward along the rocky plains to the forest of Brethil and the ravines of Teiglin. And so it happened that through secrecy and stealth Tinnurion and his companions arrived at last at the high mound where Túrin Turambar lay buried under a tall tombstone. Here they prepared to move the stone, and were it not that pity overwhelmed them, they would have surely found the sword. But it seemed as if the very land around them still mourned the loss and there were more powers at work that night than they could understand. But as they stood there, they became aware that Men had been watching them with bows at hand. Then Tinnurion cried:
‘Stay your arrows men of the wild! We are of the Firstborn and we come as friends.’
To which they replied: ‘What friend would rob the grave of one who we loved?’
‘One who looks for a sign of hope.’
‘Hope you may not find here, save hope for a quick death.’
‘Death does not come quick to the Firstborn, unless unfairly given’, said Tinnurion.
‘As is told, but an elf you seem not to our eyes, wicked and thieving. More akin to a thrall of Morgoth you have and those we treat without mercy.’
‘Alas for the sight of Men, failing to see clear both far and near.'
And they bound their hands and blindfolded them, and by secret roads through the woods they led them to an encampment where they were treated cruelly. For escaped thralls they had learned to dread and they feared greatly the lies of Morgoth. But Tinnurion had heard of the Men of Brethil, and he knew that it was only by King Thingol's leave that they could reside there. Hence he spoke:
'If allies you make of the Doriathrim, then you may find your friendship with them wither away faster than the leaves before your feet, for they will be much displeased if they hear wind of our treatment here. But I, Aeglirion of Doriath, tell you now, if you hold any wisdom like your forefathers did, send word of our capture to Menegroth and let your allies carry the judgment.'
At this the Men of Brethil murmured, and a seed of doubt was planted in their hearts - as was the power of Tinnurion’s words. The Men of Brethil were wary, but they knew better than to raise the ire of King Thingol. Thus they sent their swiftest rider into Doriath and before long he returned with a familiar face.
