Prompt: 049. where can I run to, where can I hide; who will I turn to I'm in a virgin state of mind
AN: Tolkien owns everything, and at this rate, I could have claimed Morwen/Húrin for the challenge… Saeleth is an OC but Tolkien has both an unnamed nurse for the children and several women who remained with Morwen, so she fits in well. As for the different reactions to grief, that's all Unfinished Tales: '(Morwen) did not seek to comfort (Túrin) any more than herself; for she met her grief in silence and coldness of heart. But Húrin mourned openly, and he took up his harp and would make a song of lamentation; but he could not, and he broke his harp, and going out he lifted up his hand towards the North, crying: 'Marrer of Middle-earth, would that I might see thee face to face, and mar thee as my lord Fingolfin did!'
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The noise had begun on the morning after Lalaith died, a cacophony of wailing, speeches and songs. Morwen was used to silent grief, had made it her armour and her refuge, but the sheer mass of sound she could not ignore, nor the seemingly endless pattern of faces that approached her, offering condolences or regrets. She did not doubt that it was done with good intentions, but it was overwhelming. Where was the subtlety, the memories and the gentle sadness to be borne alone or among close friends? Sometimes it seemed as though her husband's people mourned for the pleasure of it.
Húrin was no help in these matters, often as not leading the songs himself, or calling for them again. The songs and speeches turned their daughter – her daughter – into a simplified form of what she was. Too often, they distilled all her short life into a cliché, a child too good for the world of men, or a delicate flower on which winter had come too soon. The constant palimpsest of laments battered at her calm exterior like sea storms scouring a coastline, and threatened to reach the anger and grief that lay behind them. That would not do for the Lady of Dor-lómin, silent and dignified in mourning. Húrin wept openly and did not seem to understand why she let no tear fall. He had even begun yet another song of lament himself, although at least he had seen sense and broken his wretched harp before he could complete it.
None of them understood, and she would not try to explain it to them. The Evil Breath, wherever it had come from, was one of the Enemy's devices. Would he not delight at hearing their grief, knowing that he had weakened them? They had surely tempted fate by allowing the people to call her Lalaith, to the extent that she no longer answered to Urwen. Urwen was dead, and laughter would not be soon in returning to the land, if it returned at all. What, then, was the point of lamenting what could not be changed? It was better to endure it in silence, and let no hint of weakness appear for their enemies to see.
Lalaith's burial had been a brief respite from the noise. The rain was cold, and there had been no sound but for the rushing of Nen Lalaith and the wind in the trees. She had kept vigil there as long as she could, and Húrin had mercifully not tried to fill the silence with empty words. Too soon, they had been forced to return to the house and the mass of people. A feast was prepared – something else that seemed to have no point but to provide an excuse for more caterwauling – and here she was, picking at her food while a quiet storm of sound raged about her.
Enough, she thought. She was tired, and sick of playing the grieving mother after three days. She stood, and thankfully a singer was occupying the crowd's attention. Her sleeve, however, was ensnared by her husband's grasp. His wild grief had subsided, for now, and his eyes were full of pity as they looked into hers. 'Morwen–'
'Do not ask me to stay,' she snapped, and departed.
The corridor outside was cool after the heat of the hall, and blessedly silent. She leaned against the wall, rested her cheek against the cold stone, and closed her eyes until she could breath slow and steadily again. She had not meant to sound so harsh.
Oh, husband, you do not understand me. But what if he did, truly? What if he was as bewildered as she? His fingers on her sleeve had been deathly firm before she pulled away, like a drowning man clinging to a rope. She had left him to face the crowds, the noise, the music, alone. He had known as soon as she made to stand, and that grip conveyed all his fears of being abandoned. He had asked her to stay, so they might weather this storm together.
And she had refused him.
Now there was another sort of misery inside her, twining with her grief at losing Lalaith, but she could not undo her actions, and she would not return to the hall now. Could he not have stayed her a moment earlier? She might have understood in time, and they would have endured it together. Could he not have followed her, and damned whatever the people thought? No, of course not. He was bound by his sense of duty, and would not dare to defy it, just as she, having escaped the prison once, would not dare enter that place again, even for love.
What cowards we are, deep inside, she thought, and moved away so that no trace of noise or light could reach her.
The hallway was only lit intermittently by moonlight shining through open windows, making her surroundings a land of dim shadows. She could go to her bed and try to sleep, although she knew it would not come… and she would eventually have to confront Húrin. She did not look forward to that meeting. She had no strength or will to fight, and there would only be silence between them again.
I will keep watch with Túrin, she decided. All the focus had been on Lalaith, but her other child still lived and fought the sickness. She had not seen him for very long during the last few days, but the servants watched him all night and day, surely they would have sent for her if there had been any change… her footsteps quickened.
Her son's bedroom was lit only by one candle, but it seemed piercingly bright after the dimness of the hallway. When her eyes adjusted, she beheld Saeleth sitting beside his bed, a half-finished piece of sewing in her hands. 'Leave me, please,' she said quietly as her children's nurse made to stand. 'I will watch over him.' The older woman bowed her head. Before Saeleth slipped out the door, Morwen felt a light touch on her shoulder – an acknowledgment of a grief shared. The door was quietly closed, and she was left alone with her son. He had become painfully thin, his face flushed from the fever, although the hand that rested on the blankets was cold when she touched it. He breathed a little deeper as she tucked it back in, but there was no other sign of life.
The room was silent, Saeleth had gone, and all the long corridors lay between her and the raucous hall. She was safe at last. Her veneer of calm disappeared, the thick walls she had built to keep the grief penned up crumbled. Morwen slumped in her chair at her son's feet, buried her head in her arms, and sobbed.