I am sorry for that this last chapter is so short although you have had to wait so long for it, but this Epilogue was never supposed to be of full length, but more like a short draft, such as the first chapter was - the first chapter I wrote over a year ago... I am quite sure there will be no continuation, at least not another multi-chapter, unless I one day suddenly get an inspiration boost. ;)

I thank you for all the reviews and comments you have sent and for having read this fic to its bittersweet end.

Healed Twice

Túrin walked behind the stranger. The stranger who had buried Finduilas. Why had she been buried by a stranger and not her own people? Why had she had to have been buried at all?

When they came to a glade, the stranges stopped. Without a word or any change in expression, he gestured towards a tree. And when Túrin looked, he saw at first nothing but the tree, some grass and moss and other vegetation, nothing out of the ordinary. But when he looked again, he realized that by the tree there was a mound. A small mound, dug and covered a while ago, with small pale flowers growing on it, weaving a net of petals and leaves. Túrin said nothing. He looked at the mound and then at the stranger.

"This is..?" he said, his voice raspy after the silence.

The stranger nodded solemnly. "I buried her on the spot she died."

"Was she alone when..?"

"Well...I was with her. But her people were all further away."

So she had not died deserted, but somehow alone nonetheless. Túrin bowed his head. Had he not been such an idiot, he could have saved her, or if he had failed in that, he could have buried her by himself. Thus she would not have been deserted by the one she counted on the most, the one who had been supposed to protect her.

The memories flooded his mind yet again, coming back as nightmares. Orodreth had asked Túrin to protect her, but he had failed him. Gwindor had begged him to save her, but he had been unable to. She had cried for him to come to her at the hour of her need, but he had been deaf to her pleas.

And yet, he himself had once sworn to himself that Finduilas was the one he would guard. There were, apparently, no oaths he could keep.

The stranger backed away, letting Túrin mourn in peace. Túrin took a few steps forth. Somehow, as in a dream he walked to the mound, where he halted and stood still, staring at the grave before him.

"I came too late. Forgive me, Finduilas," he said. No tears did he cry, but he stood stiff, staring blindly. Again his foul deeds reeled before his eyes, as if Glaurung's lies had yet again tormented him into madness. His betrayal, his lies, his murders, his disloyalty... And last of all, he saw in his mind the death of Finduilas. The spear darting through the air, the leer of the Orcs, the scream of the Elf as she fell onto the ground, blood staining the ground. The sickening feeling brought him down, and before he knew, he stooped onto the ground, hitting the mound, falling as one drugged to sleep or slain to death.

"She alone stands between you and your doom: if you fail her, it shall not fail to find you."

"I have failed her. So doom; come and take me - I am thine."

Amidst his nightmarish dream, a sweet fragrance reached his nostrils. He could not by any means place the smell into a context, despite its familiarity. With the images of blood, fire and a dragon in his head, the sweet fragrance was from some other world, from some imaginary - or forgotten - past. But the more he wondered about the smell, the stronger it became, and the fainter did the memories of darkness become. Still lying on the ground, he could feel the scent coming from the ground underneath him. 'Some strange flowers,' was the last thing he could remember.

Later, when Túrin had been physically healed by the Master of Brethil, he returned to the mound, because it was as if something drew him there. He stood by the edge of the glade, contemplating, not quite daring to go to the mound itself. But at last, he walked up to the mound. Examining the ground he now saw again the small pale flowers that grew on the rich soil upon the spot where Finduilas now lied.

And yet again memories flooded him. As the waters of Lake Ivrin, the scent of the flowers cleared him of his tormenting memories, and for the first time for long did he remember.

The woods of Doriath, his time with Beleg and Nellas, Thingol and Melian. Green leaves, endless days, a life without the grieving.

"Niphredil," he mumbled, echoing words from the past. "It is Niphredil - the flower."

But why did it grow here? He had no idea of how it might have ended up in Brethil. He looked around himself, but the plant grew solely near the mound.

The thought of Niphredil growing there solaced him immensely. With Niphredil was bound everything that had been good, ever since he had left his home: Doriath, Beleg, Nargothrond... Finduilas...and now Brethil. Maybe this was a sign?

"You alone stand between me and my doom. I failed you, so doom will find me - but you guard me still. If doom finds me, mayhap I shall master it. I am Turambar, Master of Doom."

Then he bent to the ground and kissed it. The sweet fragrance met him with its soft touch.

"Smile again, Adanedhel," it whispered.

The End