Húrin and Morwen, by Steamey on DeviantArt
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Túrin and the Dragon – Part 5 of 5: Reunited
Doriath, First Age 502
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 elf 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
A/N:
Thanks for reading! I love to hear your thoughts on this story and the changes I made. :)
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'. This too will be 'angst with a happy ending'.