By Fate Mastered by Lyra

Bow and Helm

Making use of the following prompts:
N4 - Sophisticated as Hell
G3 - Workplace Weirdos
B5 - Jerk with a Heart of Gold
I1 - Roommates
B2 - Dramatic Reveal

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.