Dragon Deception by Mimi Lind

"In the Wake of Glaurung” by Zomburai, https://twitter.com/Zomburai

1. Deceived

Túrin was running. He was exhausted beyond anything he had ever known, but still he ran; on, and on, and on. Gwindor had just died in his arms, and his last words echoed in beat with Túrin's weary footsteps: Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas.

A chill, wintery wind whipped his face but the ground was still hot. The burned grass under his feet and clouds of cinders whirling up showed where the dragon had passed, and everywhere around him small pyres glowed like stars on the open expanse of the Guarded Plain. The few remaining trees had turned into black pillars that raised their naked branches to the sky almost accusingly.

Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Gwindor had said she stood between Túrin and his doom, but with every painful step, Túrin feared he would come too late. That the dragon had burned Finduilas too, setting her golden tresses on fire and scorching her beautiful face. Perhaps she had become like the trees; a crispy, black skeleton.

Save Finduilas. 

Guilt welled up within Túrin, nearly choking him. This disaster was his own fault. He had counseled the king to go to war, thinking the army of Nargothrond was strong enough to match the Dark Lord Morgoth’s host, but the enemy had beaten them swiftly today. And thanks to the massive bridge spanning the river – another ill counsel of Túrin’s – the dragon would have easy access into the underground city. To Finduilas.

He forced the bleak thought away. Perhaps there was still hope; perhaps he could reach the city in time and rescue her. He had to. 

Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. 

Finduilas loved him, though she was betrothed to Gwindor, but Túrin had pushed her away. Not only because he respected his friend’s claim; he had just not been interested. If the Valar allowed him to save Finduilas now, he would change. He would take her to his wife, and perhaps in caring for her, he might atone for his many sins.

Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. 

His breathing was labored and every inch of his body hurt, but finally he saw the entrance to Nargothrond. He had no elf’s vision, so he couldn’t discern what was happening there, only that tiny figures were walking around outside. He fervently hoped it was elf warriors – surely some had survived besides him?

Mustering his last ounce of energy, Túrin started up the hill and reached the bridge. Soon he realized it wasn’t warriors he had seen, but elf-women. They had been captured, bound and gathered on a terrass like a flock of sheep, and among them he recognized the one he must save; Finduilas, golden-haired daughter of the late king Orodreth. A crowd of disgusting orcs surrounded her.

Seeing Finduilas still alive ignited new strength into Túrin’s weary limbs. More orcs guarded the bridge over the river Narog, and raising his black sword, he charged them with furious might. He yelled something incoherently, too angry to even think of a battle-cry. 

The first orcs tried to resist, but against an enraged man nearly twice their height they couldn’t do much. Those he didn’t kill in the first onslaught retreated and fled before his wrath.

“Finduilas!” He headed towards the group of females.

A deep, sonorous voice sounded nearby. “Hail, son of Húrin. Well met!” Something impossibly large emerged through the broken city gates – Glaurung, father of dragons. The reptile was taller than a war horse, with a scaly body and long, cruel claws on his feet. 

Túrin instantly swiveled to meet the new threat, aiming to take out its skillet-sized eyes. 

The eyes opened, and looked straight at Túrin.

He paused. Glaurug had beautiful eyes; amber and glowing like embers. Flecks of a darker shade of orange gave them depth and life, and the narrow slits of the pupils drew him in.

There was something he had been about to do; something important, but he couldn’t quite recall what it was. Perhaps it wasn’t all that important then.

The dragon spoke again, and Túrin listened. He had such an amazing voice! Strong and authoritative, yet mellow. It was so low in pitch it made his entrails vibrate with every word, but he didn’t mind that at all.

Glaurung was calling him out for what he was: evil… thankless… slayer of thy friend… thief of love… usurper… foolhardy. Túrin could not move his limbs, or he would have nodded his head in agreement with each epithet. They were all true, and the dragon in his endless wisdom had recognized it. Túrin was pathetic and loathsome, he understood that now, and even death was too good for him.

The dragon was talking of his family now; his sister Niënor, whom Túrin had never met, and his mother Morwen. Glaurung said that because Túrin had abandoned them when he fled to the elves as a child, they now lived as miserable thralls in Dor-lómin while he was well-fed and well-dressed – but obviously Túrin didn’t care about them. Wouldn’t Húrin be glad when he found out what an excuse for a son he had? 

Túrin wanted to shake his paralyzed head, and his legs felt weak with such profound guilt he had never known before. He was supposed to save his father, not shame him! Before Túrin parted from his mother, he had promised he would free Húrin – those had been the last words he said to her. Then on the long and weary road across the mountains and through the forest, he had honed his plan, making it his goal above all others. He would grow up to become a warrior whose equal none had seen, and he would rescue Húrin right from under the Dark Lord’s nose. Everyone would be impressed by his bravery and skill; Túrin, a legendary hero just like his relative Beren son of Barahir. All across Middle-earth the tale of his deed would be sung.

Now his name was known as well, but for all the wrong reasons. Evil… thankless… slayer of thy friend… thief of love… usurper… foolhardy.

It had begun so well. When Túrin arrived in Doriath, just a small boy at the time, the finest elvish warriors in the world had recognized his promising bravery and strength. They took him under their wing and trained him, Mablung with the sword, and Beleg with the bow. Even the Elvenking himself had loved Túrin, and made him his foster-son. 

But Túrin had grown up, and one elf had hated him and there was a quarrel which somehow ended with the death of said elf – an accident, and none of it Túrin’s fault, but he had fled Doriath anyway and joined the Outlaws. When Beleg came after him with a pardon from the king, begging him to return, Túrin had refused. Who would go back under such humiliating circumstances?

Beleg. 

He didn’t want to think about Beleg Strongbow, but images welled up unbidden, prompted by the dragon’s words. Slayer of thy friend. He saw Beleg lying with clear and unseeing eyes, his lifeblood pouring out of him with every last beat of his dying heart. The heart that Túrin’s sword had pierced. Beleg had saved Túrin’s life, coming to his rescue when orcs had captured him one time, but Túrin had been so hurt and confused that he killed his own savior. For that, he would never forgive himself.  

“Túrin! Help us!” Finduilas' voice sounded distant though she passed quite close to him, roughly driven forward by a sturdy orc.

He tried to frown at her; she mustn’t scream like that. The dragon might have important things left to say. But thankfully she was soon far away, and the sharp cracks of the orcs’ whips and the joint cries from the elf-maids faded at last. Good. 

Just then Glaurung looked away, and Túrin’s mobility immediately returned. Shaking his head to clear his mind, he lifted his sword again. What had he been doing? He couldn’t waste time standing here, wallowing in guilt! He still had a task, given to him by a dying elf: to save Finduilas!

“Die, you pathetic lizard!” he yelled and charged Glaurung a second time, paying no attention to the dragon’s foul voice as he again homed in on the dead reptile eyes and tried to slash them.

The dragon easily evaded the blade and rose on his hind legs, out of Túrin’s reach. Again their gazes locked. 

“Nay!” roared Glaurung, and then added thoughtfully: “At least thou art valiant; beyond all whom I have met.” The dragon’s voice was as beautiful as before when he declared that because Túrin was so brave his life would be spared, and thus he could aid his poor mother and sister. 

Túrin basked in the praise, proud and honored that such a noble creature would recognize his bravery.

“Go to thy kin, if thou canst,” Glaurung continued. Túrin must take this chance or everyone would scorn his choice. If he chose to save Finduilas he would never see his family again, and they would curse him.

Túrin tried to nod again. Of course he wouldn’t run after an elf-maid when Morwen and Niënor were in such great need! 

Then he felt his limbs loosen and he could move. The instant he was freed, he turned north and started to run. Down the hill and out on the scorched plain he went, and in beat with his footsteps echoed the dragon’s words: Go to thy kin. Go to thy kin. Go to thy kin.

oOo

Túrin was running. His feet hurt, and his legs, and his lungs. Nearly everything hurt. But where was he? Then he recognized a peculiarly shaped hillock despite its black, burned state, and knew that he had come to the northern part of the Guarded Plain. He could not remember how he got there, but it didn’t matter. He was on the right track, headed straight towards Dor-lómin, and that was the only important thing.

Looking around, he remembered happier days when he had chased orcs here. With the Outlaws – and Beleg.

As usual, the name gave rise to a spear of pain and a gush of guilt, but he repressed them with some effort, and turned his mind back to his task. Go to thy kin. Go to thy kin. He could still hear Glaurung’s deep, resonant voice in his head. 

Yes, yes, he wanted to reply. I’m on my way. 

He heard other voices too; his dying friend Gwindor’s gurgling sigh, and Finduilas’ desperate plea, both telling him to rescue her. Save Finduilas. But he couldn’t linger, not when his mother and sister were in such danger.

Even now, orcs might be burning down the estate where Túrin grew up; the proud house his grandfather had once erected when he became the first Lord of Dor-Lómin, and the fertile farmlands surrounding it. The mental images made Túrin seethe with helpless frustration.

After ruining Túrin’s birthright, the orcs would drive his mother and sister away and give them to the Easterlings; a rough and cruel race of men who were in liaison with Morgoth, and who had received Túrin’s homeland as spoils of war. By now, the Easterlings had probably made thralls of almost everyone in Dor-lómin.

Thralls. The very word sent shivers through his tired body. Even as a small child he had known what that implied, after having pried the information out of Sador Hopafoot, a crippled servant who had been his only friend back then. Being a thrall meant hard work under an even harder master, who would drive you to exhaustion with his cruel whip. This was the danger Túrin had fled, the future his mother had tried to save him from by sending him to the elves in Doriath. But she had stayed behind, too heavy with child to make the dangerous journey, and so she had doomed herself and the then unborn Niënor to another plight. For, as Túrin had also known since childhood, the most attractive women would serve the Easterlings in another way. As wives. 

Morwen was beyond beautiful, and he didn’t doubt his sister Niënor was too. In his family they were all handsome. Had not the elves said he looked like one of them? Yes, Niënor would be beautiful, and still young. The Easterling men would fight over her.

He knew what happened in the marital bed, despite being brought up by the elves who never mentioned such matters. When he escaped Doriath to be with the Outlaws many years ago, those men had talked all the more of it. Before he joined them they often took farmer girls to pleasure themselves with, which was one of the reasons they had had such a bad reputation back then. According to the Outlaws the girls enjoyed it, but Túrin highly doubted that. Maybe if they were willing – but neither his mother, nor his sister would ever voluntarily wed an Easterling, that much was certain. 

The mere thought of an Easterling bedding Túrin’s mother by force made his blood boil, and a rage so strong he couldn’t think clearly filled him. Together with Glaurung’s voice it spurred him on.

Go to thy kin. Go to thy kin. Go to thy kin. 

He had made his choice, the only one he could make. Finduilas would have to save herself. 

Chapter End Notes

This story was written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, which is an event where artists submit art, and writers choose a piece each and write a story inspired by it.

Mine is based on the fascinating painting “In the Wake of Glaurung” by Zomburai. The instant I saw it, I knew this was the one I wanted. I love how expressive it is; I can just see how frightened, confused and pressured Túrin is. Thank you so much for trusting me with the task of clothing your vision in words!

Zomburai takes commissions if you're interested. Check out his Twitter: https://twitter.com/Zomburai

2. Wakened

Go to thy kin. 

Snowflakes hit Túrin’s face in sharp, cold stings. Somehow it had become winter while he was running north, but again he had lost track of time and couldn’t say when it happened. Perhaps it was the altitude doing it, for he noticed he was jogging through the secret pass in the Ered Wethrin mountains, south of Dor-lómin.

Not far left now.

He was very thirsty, but up here all water sources were frozen and the snow was too scarce to gather. Túrin tried to catch snowflakes on his tongue, feeling them melt and form tiny droplets. It only worsened his thirst so he gave up. Soon he would be back home and could drink his fill from the well.

As he came closer to the end of the pass, he began to recognize landmarks he hadn’t seen since he was a small boy. Over there was that wolfhead-shaped cliff overhang, and there the ancient oak, and further ahead he spotted the glade where he had hunted rabbits with Sador Hopafoot. Cheered by the familiar sights Túrin increased his pace.

He rounded a hill, and at last the house where he was born appeared, sitting snugly in a vale at the foot of the mountains. It looked suspiciously abandoned – there was no smoke coming from the chimneys, and the windows were dark – but he tried to keep his hopes up. Perhaps they just lacked firewood.

A small village surrounded the manor house, with several cottages, two farmsteads and a few shanties where the servants had lived. The dirt road leading through the village more resembled an animal track now, overgrown with weeds and grass, and the buildings on either side clearly were deserted; their doors hung on broken hinges and those windows which had had glass panels were smashed. Glancing through one, Túrin saw a mess of overturned furniture under a thick coating of dust. 

Still he trudged on. It could be a ruse; a way for his mother and sister to protect themselves. Maybe everyone lived in the great house now, both the lady and her people. It would be easier to defend a single building.

He had reached the gates now but to his dismay one of the doors was smashed in halves and the other missing completely. Inside, a startled rat scurried across the floor as Túrin entered, and the air smelled dusty and stale. 

Continuing further he saw that the hearth in the large hall was cold. Nobody lived here, he knew that now, but just in case he searched all the rooms for any signs of his family. 

He found almost nothing. The place had been ransacked long ago, thoroughly looted by an unknown enemy. 

Walking through his childhood home, Túrin felt tears burn in the corners of his eyes. It held so many memories of that rare, long lost time when he had been a little boy, untouched by violence and hardship. He had had a father and a mother, and a best friend in old Sador Hopafoot. 

When he came to the nursery more tears streamed down his cheeks. The shelves were still there, and on them lay several of the wooden animals Hopafoot had carved for him – whoever plundered the manor must have thought them worthless. Even the toy sword he had killed imagined foes with remained, and now Túrin picked it up, hefting the smooth wood. How small it was in his hand! The last time he held it, it had felt big and heavy. 

Putting it back, he palmed a beautiful little horse and placed it under his shirt to have at least one keepsake to remind him of his childhood. Perhaps it would bring him luck.

Then he resolutely left the desolate house. There was no time to linger and wallow in bitter-sweet memories; he had to find out what cruel destiny had befallen his mother and sister.

oOo

Under his shirt, the tiny wooden horse jumped in beat with his footsteps as Túrin ran towards Lady Aerin’s house. Go to thy kin. His old relative would know where his mother was. She had to!

After a while, the road grew wider and looked less abandoned, and now he began to meet a few people. Most of them looked ragged and poor, servants or maybe thralls? Since he didn’t know whether they were friends or foes, he pulled his hood up and talked to no one.

When he arrived at the gate, he was relieved to find Aerin’s house clearly inhabited. A flurry of activity was going on in the outhouses and on the courtyard.

A servant opened, and gave him a suspicious look. Then he said something in a foreign language. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“I said: who are you, and what’s your errand with Lord Brodda?”

Túrin stared at him. Brodda? That sounded like an Easterling name. “You can call me… uh, Wildman. Wildman of the Woods. I seek shelter for the night. My old relative Aerin used to live here, and she helped my family before.”

The man’s eyes softened. “Lady Aerin still lives here, and I know she’d not deny a kinsman shelter. Come inside.”

Túrin was led through narrow corridors to the servants’ domains, and offered a place around their fire. More wanderers sat there, and they looked up with curiosity when he joined them. When he didn’t say anything they soon lost interest and continued their conversation.

A maid gave him a piece of dark bread and a bowl of stew. Túrin gratefully devoured the simple meal. He couldn’t remember when he last had anything to eat, and as his chilled limbs slowly thawed he finally began to feel more like himself. 

He turned to the man beside him, a thin, youngish looking fellow. “So. Brodda is lord of this house, they say. Who is he? I’ve been away for a long time and haven’t heard any news from this country since.” 

The other’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, and then he swiftly turned away and struck a conversation with the man at his other side.

Túrin looked at his back, surprised. Had he said anything wrong?

An old, crippled man hobbled over to him. “You can’t use that language openly,” he hissed. In a subdued voice, he explained that Brodda might think he was a spy and have him beaten or even hang him for it! Lady Aerin tried to keep up the old ways and allow shelter for wanderers, but it was done in secret from her husband – husband by need, that was.

Túrin frowned. So an Easterling had taken Aerin as wife by force! That explained a lot. Would that his mother and sister had not met a similar fate!

Biting down his fear, he whispered: “There was a lady called Morwen, and long ago I lived in her house.” He described how he had gone looking there but found the building abandoned.

Nodding, the other replied that it had been empty for over a year now, and even before then only Húrin’s widow and her daughter lived there. The Easterlings had left them alone because they feared Morwen’s sternness and cold beauty – Witchwife, they had called her – but without the secret aid of Lady Aerin they’d have starved. “Though, Brodda often did find out, and then he beat her for it,” he added darkly.

“A long year? Then… Are they dead, or made thralls? Or did the orcs take them?” Túrin feared the answer.

The man said he didn’t know where they were, only that they had left their home. Then Brodda had plundered it and taken everything, even the dogs and the servants, except for a few like himself who had gone beggar instead. The man then told his name for the first time – Sador Onefoot – and that he had served the lords of Dor-lómin for a long time. 

Túrin tried to hide his surprise and happiness when he realized this was his childhood friend, the crippled servant who would make wooden toys for him. He still felt the small horse against his chest. Had it brought back Hopafoot to him? That must be a good omen.

When Túrin didn’t reply, the other suddenly became silent and peered warily at him. “I’m old and I babble. Don’t mind me,” he muttered.

Holding back a pleased grin, Túrin said that if Hopafoot suspected him of being an Easterling spy, he must have lost much of his wit with old age. 

Hopafoot stared at Túrin, a slow grin forming on his wrinkled face. Only Túrin had ever called him that nickname. Then he hissed: “Come outside!” It wasn’t safe to speak like this in an Easterling’s hall.

At the courtyard Túrin again asked about his mother and sister, but Hopafoot really didn’t know much. They had left in much secrecy of their own volition, and it was generally believed Túrin himself had summoned them south. Since this wasn’t the case, Lady Aerin might know more, but Túrin would never be allowed to see her in his present beggar-state. If he tried to go to the hall where Brodda and she presided, he would be beaten or worse.

By now, Túrin was getting quite annoyed with this Brodda fellow. An Easterling, soiling his childhood home and birthright! Taking his kinswoman to wife by force, and then beating her when she helped his mother! How dare he!

“Can’t I go there? See if I can’t!” Immediately he stomped off to the great hall and strode up to where the fat old fellow sat pouring ale into his ugly gob, with poor Aerin at his side. Brodda had many Easterling guests at his table, equally fat and disgusting as he, and among that lot the lady stood out as the only refined person. Her elegant features were sad but kind. 

It was very hard not to strangle the bastard when Túrin saw how afraid Lady Aerin was, and imagined the old fellow’s fat hands touching her. With an effort he restrained his anger and asked quite politely for news of his family. 

Aerin was silent at first, clearly not daring to speak before her so-called husband, but when Túrin insisted she finally told him what had happened. 

“They are in Doriath.” Her voice shook. "They left over a year ago to seek refuge there, and to look for young Túrin." 

Túrin stared at her. Doriath? But…  

Then the realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. They were safe. Morwen and Niënor were safe in Doriath, trying to find him! Glaurung had lied.

Lies, lies, LIES!

As if a veil had been lifted from his eyes, Túrin saw how utterly stupid he had been. His family had already been in Doriath when he met Glaurung, and of course the dragon had known this. Why had he listened? He had abandoned Finduilas, closing his ears to her pleas, and now she would be tortured and taken to be Morgoth’s slave, and it was all his fault.  

Túrin snapped. A white-hot wrath overtook him, blinding him as he charged against the fat Easterling, and before he quite knew what had happened Brodda’s neck was broken under his hands. 

The whole hall became an uproar. From all directions thralls jumped on their masters as if Brodda’s death had been their cue, and soon the room was a chaos of angry men with meat knives and candlesticks busily hacking the Easterlings into pieces. 

When it was over all the Easterlings were dead and the former thralls’ cheer nearly lifted the roof.

Túrin didn’t join in. He knelt silently beside a bedraggled corpse, covered in dust and spilled food where it lay on the floor. The old man had become trampled to death, it looked like.

Taking out the wooden horse, Túrin placed it in his friend’s cold hands. He had thought it would bring luck. Well, for old Hopafoot, it hadn’t.

oOo

Again Túrin was running. The weight of all the men he had killed was beginning to grow heavy on his shoulders, but instead of letting that slow his pace he hurried on along the Sirion.

Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Save Finduilas. Like before, he used Gwindor’s last words as a spell to keep him going through his fatigue, but it was harder this time. Now his mind was clear and his guilt manifold.

The massacre in Brodda’s hall had been the start of an uprising in Dor-lómin, but Túrin hadn’t stayed to see it play out. The thralls didn’t need him to rebel; he would only cast his shadow over them as he had cast it over so many others: Beleg Strongbow, King Orodreth, Gwindor, Finduilas, Sador Hopafoot. And the latest casualty: Lady Aerin, who instead of waiting for the Easterlings to punish her for her husband’s death had burned the house with all the corpses, and herself together with them. 

So many deaths. So much blood on Túrin’s hands. How could a person be so unlucky as he? He was cursed, that was why; through his father he carried Morgoth’s curse. 

And that was why he had left his homeland to retrace his steps all the way he had come, in a hopeless endeavour to save Finduilas. 

Chapter End Notes

Hardcore canon-conservatists can stop reading now, because in the next chapter things will change a teeny bit. :D

3. Captured

Finduilas was dragging her feet forward. Breathe out, breathe in. Breathe out, breathe in. 

A loud crack preceded the sting of the orc captain’s whip as it hit her bare ankle, but by now she was too tired even to flinch, and if her captors wanted her to move faster they’d have to carry her. She had no spare energy left.

She heard muffled sobs around her, but could no longer muster the willpower to care about anyone else. At first she and some of the others who were relatively uninjured had treated the wounded, trying to heal their burns and cuts, but they had soon given up. What was the point anyway? There was no use treating wounds which would never heal. Not when they were driven so hard; a few hours in the middle of the day was all the rest the orcs allowed them. Already a few had died. 

No, it was easier not to think about her fellow captives, and just focus on moving her feet, one after the other, and listen to her ragged breaths and the thundering pulse in her ears. 

Most of the time she managed to keep her mind blank, but sometimes she couldn’t hold back the memories. Her mother dying with a dagger in her chest. Their home engulfed in flames. Dead bodies littering the underground streets of the city, and the revolting stench of burned flesh. Wailing elflings clutched in the arms of their terrified mothers. Ashes and soot everywhere. And the dragon… That horrifying dragon tricking the man she loved, and sending him away on a fool’s errand.

Now it was Finduilas who couldn’t hold back a sob. She had lost everything.

The first few days she had made escape plans. The elf-women would turn on their captors and flee into the woods. They would not become slaves of Morgoth! She had conspired with the others during their midday rest, when most of the orcs slept, and then waited for an opportune moment. 

But none had come. The orcs were too careful; they never forgot to assign guards, and they never took the prisoners’ bonds off. With each day Finduilas grew more weary and less hopeful. Even if they found their opportune moment, by now they would probably be too weak to take it.

Instead, all she could do was focus on the present, surviving one more minute, one more hour, one more day. 

oOo

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. 

The charred grass suddenly gave way to gravel. She only noticed it because the tramp of her feet sounded different, and now she listlessly raised her heavy eyes. 

Water. A river. 

What river was it? The Sirion? No, they had gone north from Nargothrond. The Teiglin then. That must mean they were nearing the Crossings, and that in turn meant they were getting closer to Angband and the Dark Lord’s realm. Time was running out.

They continued along the river, and Finduilas could smell water in the air. She inhaled it in deep draughts. Her mouth was so dry. Would the orcs let her drink when they stopped for the day? So far all they had given her was a foul, strong beverage that burned her throat painfully.

Midday came, but the orcs didn’t slow their pace; for some reason they seemed unusually hurried. Dismayed and beyond thirsty, the elf-maids had to continue walking. 

When they arrived at the Crossings in the evening, Finduilas understood why they hadn’t stopped that day. The river was wide like a lake here, though shallow enough to wade through, and out there the orcs would be very exposed. They wanted to make use of the darkness of night to cross.

Looking at the rippling surface, and the dark shade of the forest of Brethil at the other side, Finduilas instinctively knew it was now or never; this was the moment they had waited for. If they would overturn the orcs, it had to be here, aided by the water and with a forest to seek refuge in afterwards.

She glanced at the captives closest to her, and saw they realized this too. But could they muster enough energy? They had to try, at least.

“Stones,” she whispered, so silently only the elves could hear, and looked pointedly at the rocky riverbank.

Several of the others made near invisible nods.

The orcs were already starting to cross, leading their prisoners behind them. Gasps and hisses came from the latter as the icy, late-autumn stream engulfed them. Finduilas noticed a few discreetly palm something from the bottom as they bent down to drink. Stones. They had gotten her message and would be ready, waiting for a signal to attack.

But when should that be? Now, the orcs in the rearguard were still on the shore, where they could wield their weapons freely. Besides whips they all carried swords, and some had spears as well. Therefore, the best moment would probably be when they were all out in the water – but what if the forerunners crossed quickly? From the other shore they could easily throw their spears at anyone who tried to break free. 

Finduilas rubbed her chafed wrists, trying to make her mind work through the sluggish haze of exhaustion. Now or later? It was risky to attack early, but also risky to wait.

A chill trickled down her spine as she suddenly imagined two possible futures rolling out before her. Which choice she made now meant life or death for many more than her.

Closing her eyes, she sent a silent thought to Ulmo, beseeching the Vala of the seas to help her decide. When she opened her eyes again she noticed a thin mist forming over the river. An answer! Ulmo had heard her plea! 

With the mist present, the orcs remaining ashore wouldn’t see clearly what happened out in the water – and the rush of the river would drench out any sounds as well. 

Attack early. That was what she would do.

The water was near freezing, and her legs immediately started to numb. It hurt too, a sharp, piercing pain like from a thousand needles – but for that, she was almost thankful. It roused her from the daze which had kept her trapped for so many days, making her alert and awake again. Crouching with her bound hands before her, pretending to take a sip of water, she subtly picked up a smooth stone and slipped it between them. 

Further out, the mist caressed her cheeks as if Ulmo wanted to sooth her and cheer her on. She turned towards the orc nearest to her. It struck her how small orcs were; this didn’t even reach her waist, and yet she had let them torment her for so many days. No more of that!

She chose a moment when the orc looked the other way. Bracing herself, she smashed her fists into his face with all the strength she could muster. The stone added to the impact, making the creature reel backward with a surprised yelp as a gush of blood poured out of his nose. 

Finduilas lost no time to see if anyone was following her example; she jumped on top of the injured orc and tried to fell him. He scrabbled for his sword, but she quickly used her bound hands as a snare around his neck. Pushing him under the surface, she held him down, ignoring his kicks. The orc bit her hard, his sharp fangs sinking deep into the soft flesh of her arm, but she didn’t care. She felt nothing in this icy water anyway.

Still struggling to hold the orc down, she stole a glance around her and noticed several captives wrestling with their targets, and one elf-maid had somehow managed to get hold of an orc sword. She was wielding it with her hands still tied together, hacking her way forward and leaving dead and bleeding orcs in her wake.

Then angry yells and curses sounded from the shore they had left; the remaining guards must have realized what was happening. Finduilas heard rapid splashes as they ran into the river. This was bad, but at least they couldn’t use their spears in the fog. She hoped she would have time to escape to the other shore and run into the forest before they could reach her.

If only the accursed orc she fought would die already! He was still working hard to get loose, and though he had ceased trying to bite her now, instead he was scratching her legs and belly with his claw-like nails. She didn’t want to think about how her body must look. 

Despite the chill of the water, Finduilas felt sweat break out on her forehead. She was so tired, and the rush of adrenaline that had helped her attack was waning fast. Close behind her, she heard the rearguard coming to aid their comrades.

Was this it? Had she tried to escape in vain? 

Suddenly there was a new sound ahead; voices. Male voices.

Túrin! He had come back!

Squinting her eyes, she tried to see through the mist. There were shapes on the other shore, and they were hurrying out into the water. 

As they came closer, Finduilas realized they weren’t elves, but men. They must be the famous Men of Brethil. Even in Nargothrond, tales were told of the resilience and zeal of the inhabitants of this forest. 

Biting down a pang of disappointment that the man she loved wasn’t with them, Finduilas tried to focus on her task. At last her orc had stopped moving, and with shaking arms she dropped him and waded forward to meet the new arrivals.

Together with the men, Finduilas and the other females made short work of the remaining orcs. Exhilaration filled her as she looked at the many dead bodies. They had made it! She was free!

Then the mist cleared. Her joy faded and was replaced with dismay, for on the shore she had left lay at least a dozen elf-women in a pool of blood, all of them decapitated. The rearguard orcs must have killed their charges as soon as they realized the prisoners were turning on them. 

Hurrying back, she fell on her knees beside the pile of corpses, fighting down a wave of nausea. This would have happened to them all. If she had waited to attack, their captors would have killed all the prisoners when the Men of Brethil arrived.

Breathe in, breathe out. She had to calm down, but it was nearly impossible when she realized how close it had been. If Ulmo hadn’t intervened, Finduilas and everyone else would be dead now.

oOo

Finduilas watched the humans bury her fallen sisters, feeling numb and disconnected. It was done in the human way, by covering the corpses with earth to form a smooth mound and placing a small cairn of river stones on top to mark the place. 

She ought to say a proper goodbye to them, but she was so tired, and her arm hurt so badly she couldn’t think clearly. Again, her mind turned inward. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay calm. Don’t panic.

The captain of the humans was a man named Dorlas. “Where you gonna go now?” he asked. His accent was thick and hard to understand.

Finduilas shook herself out of her trance. 

“We don’t know.” She answered for all of them, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “Our people are all dead, our home is burned and the dragon guards it. We cannot go to Doriath, as Thingol will not allow Noldorin elves in his realm, and we cannot seek refuge with Círdan at the Mouths of Sirion in the south, for the journey there would take us too close to Nargothrond. We just don’t know.”

And that was the truth of it. When making her escape plans, she had never thought further than breaking free of the orcs. What then? How long could they survive alone in the wilds?

“Then you come with us,” Dorlas decided. “Stay in our forest ‘til youse wounds are healed, and then you can figure out what to do next.”

Finduilas gratefully accepted the offer. She wasn’t overly fond of humans, with their uncouth behavior and lack of hygiene, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And some humans were nice, such as Túrin. She had thought he was an elf the first time they met.

Soon they were on their way, following a narrow path into the woods.

oOo

Breathe in, breathe out. One foot after the other. 

Finduilas didn’t remember much of the walk to the human settlement. She was so tired, and starved, and the arm where the orc had bitten her was swollen and sore, and above all else she wanted a bed.

When they finally arrived in the village she only caught glimpses of it in the pitch darkness. The buildings seemed to be little more than shanties among the trees, and the people who came to meet the newcomers were quite as ruffled as the men who had brought them there. 

The most wounded were taken to a healing hut, and there at last Finduilas could stretch her bruised limbs. Soon someone came to tend to her; a kind-looking man with a face covered in a thick beard. She regarded it curiously, suppressing an urge to touch it. Elf-men had no beards, and neither did Túrin, so she had never seen one up close before. 

“I am Brandir of the House of Haleth, leader of this settlement.” His accent was less prominent than Dorlas’. “I am also the most skilled healer here. Will you allow me to tend to your wounds?”

“Of course.” She smiled weakly, almost too exhausted even to move her lips. “Thank you for allowing us refuge. I am Finduilas, daughter of the late King Orodreth of Nargothrond.” She felt a stab in her chest when saying her father’s name; he had been killed in the recent battle, but she hadn’t had time to think about that yet.

The man looked impressed, and dipped his head. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you need. Finduilas.” He said her name slowly as if he liked the taste of it, and his eyes had grown large and dark. 

“Thank you, Brandir.” She broke eye-contact. Until she knew what had befallen Túrin, she wouldn’t encourage another man, no matter how handsome a beard he had.

oOo

Calmly walking under the eaves of the Brethil, Finduilas revelled in the fresh air, the beautiful trees and the sounds of all the living things around her.

After her wounds had healed, she had formed a habit of taking long walks in the forest to explore the surroundings and learning all the paths. In the past weeks she had grown to like her human hosts, except in one aspect: for some reason, there was a lack of women among them, and in consequence the men could sometimes be a bit overwhelming. It was flattering, but also tiring.

Today the weather was unusually warm and stifling for the time of year, and she decided to revisit the Crossings of Teiglin where the river would cool the air a little. She had been meaning to go there many times already, and see the grave again. Haudh-en-Ellith, as the place was called now – mound of the elf-women.

She knew of course that there was nothing left there to visit; the bodies were decaying and the souls had gone to the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps they had been reborn into Aman by now, as most elves are, and if so Finduilas might meet them again. Despite knowing this, she thought it would feel good to stand at the place where they had died and just remember them as they were. 

When she reached the edge of the forest, she slowed her pace and stepped almost soundlessly from trunk to trunk, looking for signs of danger. Orcs still roamed this area, and though the dragon was thought to have made a lair of Nargothrond and stayed inside most of the time, it must probably get out now and then to hunt. 

The coast seemed clear, and after drinking her fill from the river Finduilas sat down on a fallen trunk beside the burial site. It was a pleasant place, calm and secluded with the forest on one side and the river on the other. The earth on the mound was still naked and black, but she hoped it would be covered in soft grass and flowers in the spring. Perhaps she could return and look.

Finduilas turned her mind to all that had happened recently, from the attack on her city, onwards to the terror of the dragon and her capture. She forced herself to think of the torment she had endured under the orcs, and replayed for her inner eye how she had managed to break free at last. She remembered the sight of all the cruelly slaughtered elf-women on the other shore, and tried to forgive herself for surviving instead of many who probably had deserved it better. 

She thought of each slain elf, beginning with the ones resting here and continuing to everyone else in the city. She saved her parents to last; Father, whose death had been announced to her by a messenger from the battle in the Plains, and Mother, who had been killed during the attack on Nargothrond, stabbed through her heart when she and Finduilas had tried to defend themselves. And then, finally, she thought of the two she had loved; Gwindor, her betrothed who perished in the same battle as her father, and Túrin, probably long gone and dead in the north. Túrin was human and as such possessed the Gift of Men; when he died she would never see him again.

By now she was weeping freely, releasing both her grief, painful memories and her worries. 

After a long time her eyes had dried. She felt tired, yet somehow liberated, as if she had gotten rid of a heavy burden. She stayed at Haudh-en-Ellith for a while, relaxed and content, resting her eyes on the calm water of the Teiglin. Thunder rolled in the distance, and she smelled water in the air; a storm coming up. She didn’t mind. If the weather got too bad, she could seek shelter in the forest. 

Soon the sky turned iron gray, with huge bolts of lighting cleaving it, one after the other. The booms and cracks were deafening, and the accompanying rain heavy. Finduilas stood under a fir tree, protected by the brunt of the downpour by its dense foliage, and watched the spectacular show. It was both terrifying and beautiful, mesmerizing in its untamedness.

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Was that someone running? A pale shape was hastily approaching the Crossings from the south, as if chased by the black thunderclouds. 

The person arrived at the shallows and started out into the whirling water without hesitation. It looked like a naked elf-woman, one with golden blonde hair like herself. A Sinda? Finduilas had inherited her looks from her Sindarin mother, and she knew her fair colors were common among that people. But why was a Sinda walking around naked outside the magical borders of Doriath?

The naked maid had just crossed the river when a particularly loud thunderbolt made her wail and throw herself on the muddy surface of the burial mound, covering her ears and whimpering in terror.

Finduilas hastened from her shelter, unfastening her cloak and sweeping it over the other’s shivering body. She saw now it was no elf at all, but a young human woman, though she looked nothing like the dark-haired Men of Brethil. 

“Come with me, poor thing,” she cooed softly. “Let's get you out of this weather.” 

The other seemed not to hear, or maybe she didn’t understand? Her limbs were limp, but when Finduilas raised her on her feet she remained standing, and obediently allowed the elf to lead her in between the trees.

Instead of returning to the shelter of the fir tree, Finduilas decided to take her charge directly home to the village. Something was not quite right with the woman, though she couldn't say what was wrong – she had no visible injuries, apart from very sore feet.

Brandir would know what to do; for a human, he was a great healer.

On the way back, Finduilas tried asking questions, but the other remained mute and wouldn’t even say her name. It was strange, both her apathetic behavior and this seemingly inability to speak. Did she suffer from an illness of the mind?

They spent the night under some trees – thankfully the rain had ceased – and the mystery-woman slept soundly, but in the morning she was as unresponsive as the day before. When Finduilas took her hand, she went along docilely.

Back in the human settlement, the woman’s skin had become hot and her cheeks were flushed. Brandir hurriedly took her to the healing hut, and Finduilas followed them inside. 

“She has a fever,” he said after examining her. “Apart from that she seems healthy enough. But I wonder why she can’t talk?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t speak our language?” Finduilas suggested.

“I’ve tried my own language too. It made no difference.” Turning to the girl, Brandir looked at her imploringly, and she calmly met his gaze. “You’ve got to have a name, at least. You were found near the river. How about we call you Neniel – water-maiden?”

“Neniel,” repeated the girl. 

Brandir beamed at her, his cheeks flushing slightly. “So, you can speak, but maybe not any of our languages? Don’t worry. I’ll teach you, Neniel!”

“Neniel.” She returned his smile.

Finduilas couldn’t hold back a smug smile of her own. It seemed that Brandir had found another female to woo. 

oOo

Neniel's soft curls glided through Finduilas fingers as she nimbly braided the girl’s hair. She sat silent as usual, but seemed a lot less listless than when they first met. Lately she had joined the others at mealtimes, listened when they tried to teach her words, and even helped doing chores – in all this, she was a fast learner, so it was clear her wit wasn’t dim. But she rarely smiled.

"Brandir will be back any moment now," Finduilas said soothingly. The human leader had spent a lot of time trying to cheer Neniel up, but after a couple of days he had decided to take a few men to the Crossings and search the area for clues. Perhaps her family was there somewhere too? If so, finding them might disperse her melancholy. 

"Okay."

"I'm sure he will have good news."

"If you say so."

Not long afterwards, scouts announced that the warriors were returning, and that they brought a stranger with them. Wildman of the Woods, he called himself – and he was looking for Finduilas.

With a pounding heart, Finduilas went out to meet them with Neniel in tow. Could it be…?

The Men of Brethil walked first, some with bandaged heads, arms and legs – they had apparently been in a skirmish – and behind them, taller than the rest, Finduilas recognized a familiar dark head.

“Túrin!” Her strangled cry echoed between the trees as she ran into his arms, forgetting he probably didn’t want her to use his real name, forgetting everything but that he was alive.

“Finduilas.” His voice broke and she could feel him shaking. Then he held her away from him so he could look at her closely. “You live. The men said– But I couldn’t believe… My curse. My ill-fate. And yet you live! I shouldn’t come here to cast my shadow over you, and I shall soon leave, but I just had to make sure it was really you…”

“Don’t speak like that,” Finduilas sobbed, smiling through her tears. “You shall stay. I order it – and I’m the ruler of the remaining people of Nargothrond now, so you must do as I say.” She touched his cheek, and noticed he had sprouted a short beard on his chin. It suited him.

Túrin’s eyes became blank. “I– I suppose I cannot disobey such strict orders, my lady.” His smile was shaky. “And I promised Gwindor I would care for you.”

Finduilas couldn’t resist. She fell into his arms again, and this time he hugged her back. He was dirty and travel-worn, smelling of sweat and wet wool, but Finduilas couldn’t care less. He was here, and he was hers, and everything would be alright.

Then she noticed that Neniel was staring at Túrin too. Her eyes had grown large, and her cheeks blushed pink, making her look more alive than ever.

"Túrin," she murmured.

Chapter End Notes

I hope you like my fix-it version of this tale so far. :)

Ulmo intervened against orcs in a similar way once before, in the river Sirion. That time it led to the survival of Húrin and his brother Huor. I figured that IF canon was different, this might have been a likely scenario.

4. Victorious

Kill the dragon. Kill the dragon. Kill the dragon. Crouching under the sleeping monster’s belly, Túrin nearly gagged at the hideous reptile stench, but repeating the words to himself made him stay focused on the task at hand. 

Finally the opportunity had come. Tonight he would get his revenge; it was time to end the foe who had entered his mind, filled him with lies and almost ruined his chance at happiness.

Glaurung had left his lair and crawled towards Brethil, burning the lands as he went, and clearly intending to find and kill Túrin. Instead it would be the other way around, for the stupid beast had fallen asleep out here in the open, on the bank of the Teiglin. 

Foolish pride! Glaurung probably thought he was safe; that people wouldn’t dare come close. Well, unlike the men who had followed him, Túrin wasn’t so easily daunted. When they ran back home in fear, he alone had crawled under the dragon’s belly.

Finduilas’ parting words still echoed in his mind: Kill the dragon. She knew Glaurung had to die if there would ever be peace in the world – and in Túrin’s head. 

Now the moment was here. It was time to kill the dragon. 

Taking his anger, his fear and hatred, Túrin used it as a force to drive his black sword home, all the way to the hilt. 

The dragon roared in pain, writhing this way and that, and jumping away in a vain attempt to evade the piercing sword. He landed at the other side of the river with flames erupting all around him. A few more times he thrashed and spewed fire, but his movements got gradually slower, until he stopped altogether and fell down. With a deep shudder the great Glaurung became still.

Túrin stared at the huge form. Well. That had been easier than he thought! 

Swimming across with quick strokes, he went to take a look at the body of his defeated foe and retrieve his weapon. 

He climbed on top of the beast’s upturned belly, revelling in the sight of the monster splayed out on his back under him. Glaurung, father of dragons, lay defenceless and dead – or soon dead. 

Túrin couldn’t resist a final, gloating challenge: “Hail, worm of Morgoth, well met again,” he yelled, gripping the handle of the sword. “Die now and the darkness have you! Thus is Túrin son of Húrin avenged.” With that, he started pulling.

The sword was stuck hard into the scaly surface, and he had to use both feet as leverage. In a gush of black liquid the blade came loose at last, and Túrin fell down, clutching his stinging hand where the foul blood had burned him.

Something moved nearby, and without thinking he turned his head. Too late he realized he shouldn't have looked, for Glaurung’s eye was open, and his gaze was full of malice. 

A heavy blow struck Túrin’s mind, and all went dark.

oOo

Opening his eyes, Túrin sat up. His head felt clearer than it had for ages; ever since he had first met the dragon’s gaze outside Nargothrond. What had happened?

He looked at the enormous corpse beside him and felt a chill trickle down his spine. Glaurung was dead. The huge dragon was finally dead! That evil, stunning look before had just been a final trick, and as soon as Glaurung died Túrin had been freed from the enchantment.

He couldn’t resist spitting at the carcass, though he knew it was childish. “Take that, worm!”

Someone was sobbing nearby, and a male voice spoke soothingly. Turning around, he saw Neniel with Brandir’s arms around her. Strange. What was she doing here? Had she followed him despite his strict orders that she remained at home?

Neniel turned her head his way, and uttered a yelp of surprise. Then her face broke into a happy smile. “Túrin! I thought you were dead!” She tried to hug him.

“Nay, don’t do that.” Frowning, Túrin pushed her away. “You know I belong to another.” The young woman had become infatuated with him after his arrival in the village, so now Brandir loved Neniel, and she loved Túrin, and he was betrothed to Finduilas, and she kept postponing their wedding for some reason. Quite a mess, all of it.

“It’s not like that, stupid! I know who I am now; the dragon’s curse is gone at last. I’m Niënor. Your sister!”

Túrin stared at her. “But… She’s in Doriath. Or so I was told.” He hadn’t dared to go there and see for himself even after four years in the neighboring forest; the last time he was in Doriath he had killed an elf, and though Beleg had claimed the king had forgiven him, Túrin was too ashamed to return.

“I was, and Mother too, but then the dragon came and we heard rumors you were there. So when Captain Mablung went out to scout, we followed him. But the dragon’s eyes did something to me, and I lost my memory.” A thought seemed to strike her. “Thank the Valar you said no when I wanted to marry you! I’d have wed my own brother. Ugh!”

Túrin stared at her, trying to make sense of all that information. One thing was missing from her tale. “And our mother…?”

Niënor’s face fell. “We were separated. I don’t know what happened to her.”

Túrin set his jaw. “I’ll find her. I’ll make everything right, and find her.” 

“You will.” Niënor’s eyes gleamed. “The tales of your great deeds even reached us in far away Dor-lómin, and now you’ve killed an actual dragon single-handedly! You can do anything.” She turned to the carcass and kicked it. “Take that, dumb lizard! That’s what you get for trying to attack my big brother.”

A rare smile formed on his face; this was without doubt his sister. “Niënor. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Her responding grin threatened to cleave her face.

oOo

Túrin emptied his cup, feeling unusually content where he sat in the village feast area. He had eaten well and drunk his fill, and finally the dragon was completely gone from his mind. On his left, his sister was chatting amiably with Brandir, and the human leader looked happier than Túrin had ever seen him. Good for him. If someone deserved his sister, it was that man.

On his other side, Finduilas sat silent, regarding the dancing flames. Her hair gleamed like gold in the firelight, and her simple dress clung to her soft curves. She took a sip of mead, and his eyes were drawn to her pink lips.

It struck her how extraordinarily beautiful she was. With all the worries and troubles occupying his thoughts these past years, he had never really noticed that.

Before his inner eye, he saw himself removing that dress and placing her on his bed. She would look at him with the loving gaze she sometimes had, and stroke his beard and say he looked handsome in it. Then he would lay on top of her, and their lips would meet, and… 

Túrin felt blood rush to areas where it hadn’t been for quite some time. Damn. Why were they still only betrothed? He had asked her so many times, but she always wanted to wait. 

“Isn’t it finally the right time now?” he asked wearily. “The dragon’s dead, and my sister’s memory is restored, and when I brought word to Doriath of the death of Glaurung I was greeted personally by King Thingol and invited to live there. Isn’t this a good time to marry?”

Finduilas met his gaze, looking so deeply into his eyes that Túrin began to squirm uncomfortably where he sat. 

“This is the first time you have asked me this question because you want to wed me, not because you promised Gwindor,” she said at last. “The answer is aye. Aye, Túrin, this is a good time to marry.”

Bending towards him, she pressed her lips against his. 

Chapter End Notes

Ahh look at that... a *gasp!* happy Túrin?!! :)

In the Silmarillion version of these events, Finduilas was killed at the river crossing with the rest of the elf-maids. Niënor was therefore found by Túrin, and not knowing they were siblings they got married and she became pregnant with his child. When Túrin had killed Glaurung and Niënor’s memory returned, she realized all this, and in addition found him seemingly dead (because the dragon had dazed him) – so she jumped into the river where she and her unborn baby drowned. 

After Túrin had woken up Brandir tried to tell him this, but he didn’t believe it and killed the other. Later Túrin realized his mistake and threw himself on his sword and died. Then his mother came to his grave and died of grief there, and his father found her, got devastated, and threw himself into the ocean. But first he gave King Thingol a piece of jewellery which led to Doriath’s fall and to the third kinslaying, which had dire consequences for all of Middle-earth.

A horrible tragedy. Don't you agree everything would have been better with just a teeny bit of divine intervention? :)

Epilogue

Húrin walked wearily through the lush forest. Over and over he repeated the same words to himself: Find my son. Find my son. Find my son. If only he knew where to look! 

The Dark Lord Morgoth had held him prisoner for so long, forever tormenting him with twisted images of everything that happened to his loved ones. In the last visions he had seen Túrin running to Dor-lómin, tricked by the dragon, and his daughter driven insane, and his wife running away. But then suddenly the images had stopped, and everything had become dark.

Would that Morgoth had let him see what happened next, but no. It was the height of cruelty, leaving him hanging like that. Instead, Húrin had been thrown into a deep hole where he was forced to slave away in the endless mines, shuffling dirt and hacking stones into gravel with an aching back and an empty stomach.

That had been ten years ago. Not until after a decade of slavery had Húrin finally managed to kill his wardens and escape, and ever since then, his mind had been filled with but one thought: find my son.

His first stop had naturally been to Dor-lómin, where he was pleased to discover that the usurping Easterlings had been thrown out and it was ruled by his countrymen again. But nobody knew where Túrin was. 

They confirmed he had been there ten years ago, killing many Easterlings and thus igniting the rebellion, but he had left afterwards and that was the last anyone had seen of him. Rumor had it he had killed a dragon in the south, and then sailed to Aman to fetch the Valar, but other rumors claimed the dragon had eaten him but he had been so hard to swallow it had choked on his corpse. The only thing everyone agreed on was that Morwen and Niënor had gone to Doriath, and he meant to find them.

Not knowing what to think, Húrin had followed that lead, and here he was now. If his son wasn’t in Doriath, perhaps the elves could at least give him some tidings of his whereabouts. But how much longer until he got there? His legs and back hurt terribly; he was too old for making such a long journey. And in his head the words repeated themselves endlessly: Find my son. Find my son. Find my son.

“You must be Húrin?” The polite elf voice came from a tree above him, interrupting his mental litany.

Húrin squinted to see through the greenery. “I am. I wish to ask some questions about my son. Túrin, his name is, if you have heard of him?”

“I have.” The elf laughed melodically and dropped down before the old man. “I am Mablung, captain of the march-wardens. Let me escort you to the city.”

Húrin obediently followed the other along a near-invisible path, until he saw a hill among the trees; Menegroth, the city of a thousand caves. He felt honored to be allowed to see it, for he knew not many mortals had.

A high-pitched voice caught his attention, and he noticed two little girls playing by the river. It was a warm day, and they were bathing their feet under the watching eyes of an old woman with an iron-gray bun. The woman stood with her back towards Húrin, but something about her was very familiar.

Then she turned her head, and though her mouth didn’t move, her eyes were smiling in the way only hers could.

“Morwen…” he whispered. Despite her age, she looked so healthy, and still every bit as beautiful as he remembered. How was it possible?

“You are late.”

“I came as soon as I could.” He swallowed, not daring to ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. Where is my son? Where is my daughter?

“I am glad you are here now.” Turning to the bathing girls, she called: “Come children. Meet your grandfather.”

Grandfather? He stared at them. 

The girls gave him curious looks and then greeted him politely in the elvish fashion, placing their small hands across their hearts.

“I am Lalaith, daughter of Túrin and Finduilas.”

“And I am Húrwen, daughter of Brandir and Niënor.”

Stunned, Húrin found no words, but the girls seemed not to mind. Soon they had returned to the water, and the air was filled with their light voices and happy laughter once more.

Morwen moved closer, nestling her arm under his. They stood like that for quite some time, silently watching the playing children, while Húrin tried to wrap his mind around what all this meant. 

He was free at last. Free, body and soul! No longer were the children of Húrin cursed, no longer could the Dark Lord’s long arm reach them. This battle Morgoth had lost, and Húrin was suddenly certain it was only the first in many to come.

He smiled, shyly giving his wife a peck on her cheek. “I am ready to see my son and daughter now.”

The End

Chapter End Notes

Thanks for reading! I love to hear your thoughts on this story and the changes I made. :) And again, many thanks to Zomburai for submitting your art to the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang, without which this story would never have been written! ♡

If you liked Túrin's angsty tale and the Silmarillion tragedy, maybe you can try my Thranduil’s Shadow in which the Elvenking's lifestory intermingles with Túrin's and many other Silmarillion characters'. That too will be 'angst with a happy ending'.