By Fate Mastered by Lyra

The Heir of Hador

Using, more or less unsubtly, the following prompts:
- I4 (Average Suburban Family)
- G5 (Failure Is The Only Option)
- I3 (Laugh Track)
- I5 (Getting Volunteered)
- B4 (Are We There Yet?)

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?"