Alice was very tired of walking along the Thames, which presented no outlet for her talents. Right on cue, it turned into the Teiglin. Alice was quite unsurprised to find herself approaching a small mound, on which she sat down. A few moments brought within her field of view a tall man carrying a huge black sword and wailing in grief.
"Excuse me, sir," said Alice, "but who are you?"
The man seated himself by her side, regarding her gloomily.
"My name is called Thurin," he sighed.
"Oh, that's your name, is it?"
"No, that is what my name is called. My name really is Gorthol."
"Then I ought to have said 'That's what you are called'?"
"No! I am called Adanedhel, but that is only what I am called."
"So I should call you Adanedhel?"
"No! You should call me Mormegil."
"So that is what you call yourself?"
"No, I call myself Agarwaen, Neithan or Turambar."
"So that's who you really are!"
"No, I really am Túrin," said Túrin. "Who are you, child?"
Alice considered this.
"Probably Alice Liddell, but I might be Mabel."
Túrin nodded in understanding.
"And how old are you?"
"Nominally seven and a half, but clearly at least ten."
"An age of sorrow! Better to have left this vale of tears at seven."
A silence fell, broken by Alice:
"Did you know," said she, "that, if you cut your finger very deeply with a sword, it usually bleeds?"