Eithel Ivrin

„Not in your name…"

Water runs black from your skin, and black it is when it leaves you to fall to the ground and pool around your feet.

Naked you are, naked as you were in your mother's womb, but the filth of the world clings to your skin; the blood of your birth had not been washed away properly then, and you have not been clean ever since.

You would deny your past, your own reflection mirrored by the black waters, you would deny even the very voice of Morwen Eledwhen were denial enough to bring relief.

The world is amiss, running out of its course; Anglachel is dark, never to flame again. Black like dried blood, like your endless nights, like the will of Morgoth, like you yourself; never to flame again.

You went awry, from what path you have turned you know not now, but there was a light once around you. That you remember for if you were to forget all that had been, you would not weep so here.

But you weep and you cry like you cried on that first day, freely and fully as all cursed beings are wont to, when they are to come and be born to this hell, ever to long for that warmth, that peace. Ever to long for it, never to reach it. Maybe in death.

Death you know. Death you have caused. Death you are. Flame-less, light-less, you are.

To live is to ache in body and heart.

You do not yet know, if you live now.

You do not yet know, what it means to die.

You wash yourself again, your shells and your clothes and your skins. You wash away the bright youth, the grim fights, the cursed kills, the foul remnants of captivity.


Water runs black from your skin, and black it is when it leaves you to fall to the ground and pool around your feet.

It rolls off your skin, so easily, but all the new layers are tainted.

The blade, much like the world, is dark, blunt and cold.

There was once a flame to this sword, a flame to your world.

There was once warmth and comfort.

And there is a thirst now, greater than any mortal need; you burn and ache inside.

Water soothes your pain, water tinkles around you, water reminds you of her, whose name you are not to speak. But your memories do not need words.

You killed.

Your memories bear no words.

So you weep.


Water rolls from your eyes; pungent and burning, dense with purifying salt.

You look up around and see despite the dark. The mirrors, the waters.

You breathe; it is rasp and it is shallow. But you breathe.

You remember. You speak.

Laer Cú Beleg rings loud and clear, heedless of peril. In its sounds you bathe.

You take up a new sword, you take up a new path.

You accept the promise that you shall be healed and renewed. You do not yet know what that means, but the world is no longer a black haze, closing in on you.

You turn your back on the reflecting water.

You leave.


(Water runs black from your skin, and black it is when it leaves you to fall to the ground and pool around your feet.)


After being rescued from captivity of the Orcs, Túrin accidentaly slayed Beleg Cúthalion, the greatest in skill of all that harboured in Doriath, and dearest friend of Túrin himself. Upon understanding what he had done, Túrin fell into dark dreams and walked as if he were in sleep. Only by the Pools of Ivrin, or Well of Ivrin (Eithel Ivrin) did he wake from his madness. According to The Children of Húrin (HarperCollins Publishers, 2007; p.157) he knelt and drunk from the waters.

In my story however he also bathes in the waters before he drinks from them.

The beginning quote is from Gwindor son of Guilin of Nargothrond, who was enslaved after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and was later rescued by Beleg Cúthalion. After guiding Túrin to awakening by the Well of Ivrin, he leads him to Nargothrond and tells him of the rumoured curse that Morgoth put upon the family of Húrin. Túrin believes in the curse, and tries to hide his identity by hiding his name and his heritage. Gwindor reveales his identity however, and when Túrin confronts him in anger this is Gwindor's full reply to Túrin (p.170):

"The doom lies in yourself, not in your name."

Another quote that is highly responsible for inspiring this one-shot is by Morgoth himself (p.16, Introduction): "The shadow of my purpose lies upon Arda, and all that is in it bends slowly and surely to my will."

Real AN:

(Regarding any sort of writing, I am terribly out of sorts. Please be lenient! )