By Fate Mastered by Lyra

Average Suburban Family

There had been a time when they had been just an ordinary family. True, others treated his father with great respect; but being a child, and himself respectful of his parents, Túrin did not find that unusual. But one night, he heard his parents speak of the House of Hador, of fiefs, of inheritance and lordship. He did not understand it all, but he knew that the words had a noble meaning.
Heir of the House of Hador, his father called him. The words kindled pride in his heart. Túrin squared his young shoulders, ready to take on his fate.

* * *
Failure is the only option

None of the men returned from the battle; no news came. Instead, strangers in the service of Morgoth claimed their land and forced them into labour. That message was clear enough.
Túrin felt that his father must be dead, for else, no-one could hold him away from his home. Morwen believed neither, and was right. But she did not know that the shadow lay more heavily on them than on their unhappy people. Far away, Túrin's father scorned Morgoth's threats and promises. Far away, Morgoth cursed his kin. Heavier even than the Doom of the Noldor would their fate be.

* * *
Laugh Track

Urwen had ceased to laugh forever, but Túrin was beginning to hear a different kind of laughter in his head. It was not his sister's charming laugh, merry as the stream of Nen Lalaith; it was the laughter of a dark voice, old as stars, inescapable as fate. Whenever he was pleased with a decision, the laughter was there, mocking him. He hated it, and rarely laughed himself. There was little to laugh at.
Still, since the laughter did not go away, he grew used to it. Soon, he stopped wondering why it was there. Soon, he heeded it no more.

* * *
Getting volunteered

"Come now," said Sador the woodwright. "You said you wanted to go as a soldier with an Elf-king, as soon as you could. Now you can go even sooner!"
"But that is not what I meant!" said Túrin. He pictured himself, alone among Elves, with neither his mother nor Sador to help him make sense of things. "I do not want to leave."
"Men's will looks one way, and fate another", Sador said as Túrin grumbled. "I left the Elf-king's host, afraid of being wounded in war, and see how much good it did me!"
Three days later, Túrin left.

* * *
Are we there yet?

"We should be there already," Grithnir said.
"We are there," Gethron said, "or at least we are near the border, which is why we are lost."
Túrin thought that this made no sense, but his companions were in no mood for explanations.
They should be there already. Their provisions were spent, and their cloaks and bedrolls provided little comfort against the damp of the forest and the cold from the North. If they did not find their way soon, they would meet a grim fate.
Suddenly, he heard something in the distance. "Listen," he said. "Isn't that a hunter's horn?"

Sophisticated as hell

Nellas taught Túrin how to speak prettily. In Dóriath, there were more words than he was accustomed to, and they had more meanings. Unthinkable to use them for unkind purpose. If you had unkind thoughts, you clothed them in silence or courteous phrases. Anything else would have been unfit for this realm where time flowed slowly and memory ran long, where dignity reigned and language was song. Túrin listened and learned.
Ill-fated Saeros, it seemed, had no such teacher. His contempt was unmasked, his words intentionally unkind. Túrin listened and learned. Saeros would learn just how well the man remembered.

* * *

Workplace Weirdos

Algund had deserted from the Nirnaeth. Rimbo was always muttering to himself. In contrast, Orbal said nothing at all. Andróg had slain a woman. Ulrad could never keep his hands still; he always needed a twig to crush or a reed to twist between restless fingers. Forweg's eyes were unsteady, flitting this way and that, unable to fix upon one thing for long. Neithan the Wronged was no stranger than the rest of the Gaurwaith whom fate had thrown together. He objected to some of their ways, but he tried to get used to them. At least they were company.

* * *

Jerk With A Heart Of Gold

No: If they were to be his company, they would have to change their ways. Forweg fell to Túrin's avenging sword. Taking his place, Túrin turned them away from robbing other people's homesteads. Beleg's captivity was the final straw. The wolf-host would have to become noble warriors. No more would they raise their blades or bows against Elves or Men.
Or, if Túrin could help it, Dwarves. If only Mîm had told him of his purpose, he thought later. They might have come to an agreement. Alas, fate willed it otherwise. The Dwarf was easily as stubborn as Húrin's son.

* * *

Roommates

Still, for a while, they were almost friends. Perhaps they forgot why the place was called the House of Ransom. Perhaps Túrin did not hear the angry mutters and did not see the jealous looks, locked with Mîm in secret conversation, delighting in the return of Beleg. Perhaps he did not see how the new friend resented the old, being himself happy to share. Perhaps he grew too proud of his victories. Perhaps he was too trusting.
Perhaps there was nothing he could have done. Slowly, fate was drawing its noose ever closer around the Dread Helm. Then it struck.

* * *

Dramatic Reveal

Lightning flashed, thunder crashed. Túrin was drenched with rain. There was a relentless ache in his muscles and bones, and a sharper pain where the Orcs had toyed with him. He had at last fallen asleep, and now there was another come to prick his foot with a sharp blade! Suddenly his hands were his own to command, and he wrested the sword from the Orc. No sight was needed to stab the fiend. Sweet freedom!
Lightning flashed, striking his heart. No fiend! The best of friends! What had he done?
Fate was laughing, louder even than the thunder.