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F.A. 464
“He resembles you,” Húrin breathes, wholly awed by the babe asleep in its mother's arms.
Sharing in his joy, Morwen actually laughs.
“At this age he resembles every child of Man that ever was born,” she says, yet her smile lingers as Húrin takes their firstborn in his own arms.
F.A. 465
Túrin can take only a few steps on his own. He has, however, quite mastered the art of clinging onto anything within his reach to support himself on longer walks. And when nothing is within his reach, he’s learned to hurl himself towards Húrin, confident that he will be caught and taken whither he wishes to go — most often, to his mother’s arms.
“I marvel at you, Húrin Thalion,” Morwen says, taking Túrin. “You are less your horse’s master than your son is yours.”
“That is well,” Húrin laughs, “for my horse loves me less than I love my son.”
F.A. 466
If the novelty of having a sister does not soon wear off, Túrin promises to be a better brother than Húrin can imagine himself being at his age, though he loves Huor wholeheartedly.
Nonetheless, he finds himself wishing Túrin were slightly less devoted to Urwen — it is hardly ideal to have a young son who dissolves into tears and tantrums every time his sister cries.
At least they have recently taught him not to hit and shout No! No! when he deems someone is at fault for the babe's distress.
Húrin has heard it told — for his men are eager to offer him advice sought and unsought — that young children will sometimes hurt newborn babes to vie for their mother's attention. Yet he’s been caught by surprise in having a son who hits his beloved mother to defend a sister in whom he otherwise shows little interest.
“My baby!” Túrin sobs with all the fierceness of a wilful two-year old being gainsaid. It does not seem that he is taking any notice at all of Húrin's earnest shushes and bounces and soothing caresses.
“The louder you are, the longer your sister shall wail,” Morwen scolds, but Túrin ignores her too.
F.A. 467
Lord's children that they are, both his little ones have worthy nurses, chosen by Morwen herself. What their duties may be is beyond Húrin's ken — it seems to him that Morwen does most of the caring and all of the teaching, with the relentless devotion the House of Bëor pride themselves on — but he knows the nurses are faithful in their charge. All the more reason, then, to be startled when Morwen comes find him outside in the late afternoon, bringing with her reports of Bronwen's carelessness.
“She claims to have turned her back for a moment's time. Overlong, it seems,” Morwen says, her words sharp but her smile soft. “Come and see how your son behaves himself unwatched.”
It’s not a far walk to the children's room, but on their way there, Húrin thinks of the dangerous games of his childhood and wonders whether Túrin is already old enough to develop strange notions of amusement. Morwen's cryptic gesture telling him to keep silent hints at a different kind of riddle, however.
The answer unveils itself almost as soon as Húrin reaches the door to see Túrin's bed empty — and Lalaith's crib crowded, with Túrin on his stomach, his dimpled arm slung across Lalaith’s chest.
That Túrin can climb in and out of cribs with Elven ease they have discovered long ago; that he does so to hold his sister is a new learning.
“He does not take wholly after me,” Morwen whispers. “As you can see.”
“Is that a complaint?” Húrin whispers back playfully, taking her into his arms.
Morwen leans back against him with the unexpected affection that still races his heart. “Call it rather a high hope, and not for myself alone.”
“He’s a good child,” Húrin counters gently. “And I ask nothing more of him yet.”
F.A. 468
Húrin is away defending the eastern borders for little less than a month, and yet he returns to find his household wholly changed: he’s greeted by Túrin and Lalaith running hand in hand ahead of Morwen — Lalaith with her favoured doll and bright smile, and Túrin turning back every so often to see if he has outpaced the limits Morwen must have placed on him.
For a moment, Húrin lies frozen, his horse's bridle slack in his hand. These are babes no longer, but children already, both of them.
When he'd left them, Lalaith's run had been faltering whenever she couldn’t use her arms to balance herself, and any amount of excitement had quite ousted from Túrin's mind any commands he'd been given. And now…
Never since the unbearable eternity of Gondolin has Húrin felt more keenly the swift flow of time.
Entrusting his horse to the nearest of his men, Húrin crouches down on the grass just in time to catch his children in an embrace so delightful that he has to laugh to keep his heart from bursting. Lalaith giggles with him and covers him in her overenthusiastic kisses, but Túrin leaves his arms soon, more interested in the sword at his waist. Húrin pushes his small hands away from it.
“You’re still too little for this,” he says firmly, and Túrin storms off to sulk behind his mother's skirts. With practised ease, Morwen idly pets his hair to soothe his anger away as she approaches. Her power over Túrin is staggering; awe-struck, Húrin smiles up at her.
“You return to me nobler treasures than I left you with, Lady of Dor-lómin. You’ve taught them well — too well, perhaps.”
“I take pride in their learning,” Morwen answers, “but I claim no part in their change, if that is your meaning. Had I my way, they would be slower to grow.”
Túrin gazes up at her. “Why?”
“A mother's foolishness,” Morwen says, meeting his eyes. “I do not understand it myself.”
“Your mother wants more years to love you,” Húrin offers, and that gets him one of Túrin's shy smiles.
“I love you!” Lalaith echoes proudly, as she has learned to do recently. Morwen says she is only copying words without any understanding of them, but Húrin knows better. At any rate, it makes Túrin rush to kiss his sister, and watching that is a rare gift in itself.
F.A. 469
“For a loss such as this, there is no solace that can be given or taken,” Morwen had said when Húrin had first attempted to find for her and from her some measure of comfort. To this belief she has held, and now that Túrin is awake, it seems that he’s following in his mother's footsteps.
Nonetheless, a fortnight after his recovery he comes seek his father as Húrin sits against a tree, gazing unseeing at the Nen Lalaith.
Still thin and wan, Túrin tucks himself under his arm. This might be the first time his son has asked to be held in a whole year, if not more, and that’s enough to overpower Húrin’s grief for the moment. Intently, he pulls Túrin closer and onto his lap, as he should have done more often with Lalaith.
“Is it true, as Labadal says,” Túrin asks quietly before Húrin can speak, “that the Enemy took my sister away?”
The word yes tastes bitter in his tongue, but Húrin says it all the same.
“But then why,” Túrin frowns, “could he not take me away, too?”
Húrin can think of no answer to this, but he knows what Morwen would say, and it may be that Túrin can find some comfort in it, alike as they are. “You were older, and stronger.”
Túrin nods, appeased for the moment. But when Húrin moves to kiss his brow, he winces away and slips out of his lap to stand before him.
“I understand now,” he says, his grey eyes serious and far too old.
His face has gone ashen, and his breathing is so shallow that Húrin reaches for him, afraid he will swoon. But Túrin steps back and out of his reach, eyes quickly filling with tears.
"Are you angry at me?" he asks, face downturned in childish shame, his hands toying with the hem of his tunic. "For I was strong but did not protect my sister as you told me to, and now she is gone and will not return."
There are men under Húrin's command — good, worthy men who do not flinch before the hosts of Angband — who could not take upon themselves a burden such as this, nor, if they did, confess to it. And yet here Túrin stands before him, not six years of age, and ready to right a wrong which is not his to amend.
Húrin's vision blurs.
“I am not angry, Túrin,” he manages somehow, and leaves the tree-roots to kneel before his trembling, terrified son so as to dry the tears rolling down his reddening cheeks. “Nor are you to blame.”
It's empty solace and cold comfort, but this time at least Túrin allows himself to be pulled in and cradled close, and Húrin holds him perhaps too tight as he weeps with grief he's still too young to understand. At twenty-eight, Húrin finds that he can understand it little better than he. He doubts anyone could. Even an Elf, even the Elder King.
F.A. 470
Húrin is not unaware that Túrin is somewhat uneasy around him. It has been so since he’d first understood the world enough to realise some people are ever with him, and some leave and return at odd moments. The older Túrin gets, it seems, the shyer he becomes, and Húrin dreads the day when only duty will compel his son to welcome him when he returns from the borders.
Yet this is the first time Húrin has been called away from home since the stilling of Lalaith's laughter — if this is the year the change takes place, Húrin might find the limits of the strength that is in his heart.
His fears prove misguided, however, for Túrin — without Morwen in sight — overtakes him at the bridge, breathless with running. Húrin frowns. He's spent too many nights chasing away nightmares to mistake the open relief in his son’s eyes for the joy of a reunion.
Even as he quickly dismounts and picks Túrin up, Húrin surveys the land around them for signs of danger. He finds none — but neither does he find Morwen.
“Oh, how heavy you are!” he smiles, careful.
Usually, Túrin delights in all acknowledgement of his swift growth, but this time he does not react with beaming pride. Instead he hides his face in the curve of Húrin's neck, his fingers clutching at his hair as his arms clasp him as tightly as he can.
“Where is your mother, Túrin?”
“Home,” he replies muffledly, and says no more. For a moment, Húrin tenses, but before his fear can grow, the tall figure of Morwen emerges from the hall and all is well. If Húrin nonetheless crosses the distance between bridge and house too fast, that’s a forgivable weakness.
Morwen meets them halfway, unsmiling as she has been lately. Húrin wonders, sometimes, whether he has lost her smile forever alongside Lalaith’s.
“He must have heard the horses sooner than I did,” Morwen explains calmly. More than this she says by reaching to smooth Túrin’s hair tenderly, almost comfortingly. “You have returned beyond all his hopes. The waiting has been long for him.”
Small wonder. The Black Hand has reached Dor-lómin, and not even Húrin Thalion has escaped it unaltered. Why should Túrin not change as well?
“Can it be,” Húrin asks, pitching his voice cheerfully, “that the son of Morwen doesn’t yet know that his father shall always return to him for as long as he draws breath?”
Túrin doesn’t answer, but Morwen's face darkens, and her voice deepens to something grave and bitter. “He knows now that breath may be stolen.”
Húrin isn't sure what to say, but he's spared the need to reply anything at all, because Morwen turns her attention to Túrin again
“Look at me, my son,” she commands, and Túrin does so promptly, although his hold on Húrin's neck tightens rather than slackens. “Not once has your father lied to me, and I do not believe that he shall ever lie to you. You are old enough to understand his words and master your fears.”
Túrin weighs the meaning of her words, silent and serious. Then he frowns. When he speaks again, his tone is cautious. “Do you mean that the Enemy is gone?”
“Not yet,” Húrin replies, taking his small hand and kissing its palm. “But his rule shall not endure forever. And while our lord Fingon lives, we shall have peace for women and children at least. Let's come inside and I shall tell you why he is called the Valiant, for that is a happy tale, and a glorious one.”
F.A. 471
“It is strange,” is all Húrin can coax out of Túrin as he observes the Helm of Hador.
Although he really should not, Húrin laughs.
No less proud or serious than his mother, Túrin frowns slightly, and scornfully shrugs off the hand Húrin had been keeping on his shoulder.
“It is strange,” Húrin concedes, running his fingertips across the runes. “It was made by the Dwarf-smith Telchar in the East, for the use of his great lord Azaghâl. See how cleverly he has carved runes of victory? Neither sword nor arrow can ever pierce this helm, and I’ve heard it said that none shall die wearing it. The Dwarves use no such runes for trinkets to be given to outsiders. I have told you often enough how it has come to be our heirloom. Do you recall it?”
“The king has given it to us,” Túrin says, plainly more interested in the gilded dragon than in the lore. Húrin loves him for it. The ways in which he still resembles a small child are becoming few and far in between.
“How did the king come to have it?” Húrin insists, mostly because it is his duty. Túrin is becoming too old to be reared among the women of the household, and the head of the House of Hador has duties to its heir that most fathers do not.
“He won it when he drove back the dragon,” Túrin replies, then stops and furrows his brow. “No. For that was far from the East; the Dwarves would not care.”
Húrin smiles. His son has a good head for history, although he pays little attention to anything happening between battles and great deeds. But these he studies of his own will, asking cunning questions and delighting in tales of daring more than even Húrin remembers doing at his age.
“It was given to him by his kinsman Maedhros, lord of…?”
“Himring,” Túrin answers easily enough, and brightens up before Húrin can prompt him further, “Himring, in the East.”
“In the East,” Húrin nods, and runs his hand through Túrin’s hair, which shall soon need cutting. “The Lord of Himring once saved the life of Azaghâl the Dwarf-lord, and received as guerdon this helm. And Maedhros sent it to our king, as a token of friendship and in remembrance of his battle against the dragon. That is where you lost your way. Now, as you can try for yourself, the Dragon-helm is heavy, and in all of Hithlum, no one could be found who could wear this helm with ease, save for…?”
“Your father’s father,” Túrin replies, quick and eager. His grey eyes glitter with pride, and he looks suddenly tall and noble, so much like his mother that Húrin turns slightly to look at his face. The beauty of Eledhwen will soon begin to show in him. “Hador Lórindol, who was the first Lord of Dor-lómin. And his son, my grandfather, Galdor the Tall. And that is why we have the Helm of Hador — because only our House can wear it.”
“We have it,” Húrin says gravely, “for the great love the High-king Fingolfin and his son Fingon bore to our sires. Other kings would perhaps have kept it unworn in their treasure-rooms, or else sought far afield an Elf who could reclaim it. When the Dragon-helm comes to you, remember that never has it been given to any but in love. Forget all else which I have taught you today, but never this. You shall have other heirlooms than this, none of them of small worth — and yet, though this helm were only the least of them, still I would have you prize it above all else. Nothing do we own whose tale is fairer, or indeed greater. Mark this well, Túrin heir of Hador.”
Túrin nods slowly with the empty expression of a child struggling with a lesson he's not yet old enough to fully grasp. Húrin smiles down reassuringly at him. He shall have many years to understand this yet. Even if the Lord of Dor-lómin does not see his child come to manhood, Fingon’s love for the House of Hador is no passing thing, Elf-lord that he is.
The Year of Lamentation
It is not doubt which has clouded his day, but a father’s heart is given to fears which torment neither warrior nor lord, and so Morwen comes find Húrin in the darkest hours of the night sitting at the edge of Túrin’s bed, as awake as he’d been when she had slipped into her ever-light slumber.
Húrin means to smile at her coming, but her candle changes the shape of the shadows in the room, and he is distracted first by how tall and wide Túrin looks under his covers, and then by how the roundness of his face is giving way to the sharpness of an early manhood that won't tarry much longer.
The summoned men are due to arrive any day now, and if the campaign is a long one — and Húrin cannot imagine how it could be otherwise — he is likely to return not to a child, but to a lad eager to learn the handling of weapons and the crafts of warfare. Already Túrin resents being treated as a child, as fiercely as Huor did when their uncle had judged Húrin had reached a man’s age.
“You gain nothing by this vigil,” Morwen whispers once she is near enough, but there is no censure in her voice, and when Húrin reaches for her free hand, she seems willing enough to stand beside him in his purposeless vigil.
“I do not seek to gain,” Húrin answers, “I fear to lose. My heart tells me if I depart now I shall not return before Túrin’s childhood is spent and gone.”
“Better spent than robbed,” Morwen says with the grim bitterness which has never left her. It calls to mind things he avoids thinking of, yet he cannot find it in himself to resent her for it; nonetheless, there is self-reproach in the way she presses her lips together and silences. Some — but not all — of her unease fades away when he holds her hand against his own lips.
“Did I awake you when I left?” Húrin asks, mostly for the sake of saying something. It might be the right thing to say, because Morwen’s eyes soften.
“It has been many years since I would awaken whenever you stirred; it seems that now I cannot sleep if you do not disturb me often enough.”
Although Húrin’s answering laughter is neither very loud nor very lasting, Túrin has always had his mother’s sharp ears and light sleep — his eyes blink open and he frowns drowsily, looking about in mild confusion. Habit more than thought guides Húrin’s hand away from Morwen’s, and his instinct proves right when smoothing the hair back from Túrin’s brow is enough to lull him back to sleep. Passing his hand across his brow again is an unnecessary caress, but he has learned from Urwen the sweetness of the unnecessary.
“It seems to be my lot today,” Húrin says, “to awaken all my household. Shall I fetch a trumpet and be quicker about it?”
“I’m not keen to hear the sound of trumpets,” Morwen replies dryly.
“Túrin might enjoy it,” he smiles stubbornly. “I daresay he would.”
“And if you were certain of it, you would awaken the whole of Hithlum for his amusement.”
“Ever do you speak true,” Húrin says. “But say more. Is it not you who foresaw all too wisely that Túrin would have mastery over me? So he has, and if he asked it of me, I would do as my lord Fingolfin did, and shake with my trumpets the very towers of Thangorodrim.”
“I do not doubt it,” Morwen says, sounding unwillingly charmed. Húrin grins at her. “Yet you might find his mastery less sweet to bear once he is grown enough to challenge your will with his.”
“I might,” Húrin admits, stroking Túrin’s hair. “But if I gain enough peace for my son that his foremost trial is whether he can prevail over his own father, I shall consider myself worthy of being Hador’s heir.”
“Only then? You would be the last man in Beleriand to judge so.”
Again Húrin laughs, but this time Túrin does not stir. “Do I hear Morwen’s wisdom or my wife’s love, I wonder?”
“Neither,” Morwen replies without hesitation. “You hear the judgement of Baragund’s daughter. The House of Bëor has fallen, but through you the House of Hador rises ever higher.”
“You have given me a high-hearted son,” Húrin counters, watching Túrin’s even, unafraid breathing. “What manner of father would I be, if I did not rise at least to the height of his promise?”
Morwen makes a sound that is conceivably one of amusement. “Do I hear Húrin’s wisdom or a father’s love, I wonder?”
“Why do you wonder?” Húrin smiles. “I have not your cool judgement — with me, love shall ever speak loudest.”