Author's Note: Hey, y'all! I hope you like this little story; the idea jumped into my head mid-conversation, and even mid-sentence. My muse never ceases to amaze (or annoy) me. Anyway, enjoy the story, and don't forget to review!
. . .
The dark leaves that drifted into wilted piles of deadness signified the approach of winter. Túrin noted them with sorrow as he skidded to a halt above Cabed-en-Aras, the rushing water filling the air with its roar. All was cold; all was unfeeling and dead. The Doom, which had been slowly growing for many years, had finally reached its climax as Túrin drew out his sword, utter despair written on his face.
"Hail Gurthang!" he declared loudly to the blade in his hand, his mind still reeling and his shaking hands gripping the hilt so tightly that he made an imprint of it on his palms. "No lord or loyalty dost thou know, save the hand that wieldeth thee. From no blood wilt thou shrink. Wilt thou therefore take Túrin Turambar, wilt thou slay me swiftly?"
From the sword then rang a cold voice in answer to Túrin's request, a sight which was most assuredly strange, but Túrin was too far gone in agony to take note of it. "You're kidding, right?" the blade inquired.
"What?" demanded Túrin, feeling a bit of his fury return at the unexpected and annoying reply.
The sword gave a nervous chuckle. "You seriously just think I'm going to kill you? Help you attempted suicide? You need serious help, Túrin."
Túrin was dumbfounded, but he quickly recovered his wits. "It is by you that I slew Beleg and Brandir! Do I not deserve to die?"
The blade shrugged (though the way in which it could have accomplished this action has puzzled scholars for centuries). "Do I look like a judge? Why don't you turn yourself in; let the authorities deal with it. It isn't my job to kill anyone that I think deserves it. Since when have I acted according to any such standard?"
Túrin gaped at the sword, but it continued its rant before he could respond. "And anyway, didn't you just say that the only person I have loyalty to is the one who wields me? That happens to be you right now, so you're the last person in Arda I should be slaying."
Túrin at last shook his head clear of this madness and took the matter into his own hands—literally. He propped Gurthang onto the ground and prepared to fall upon it and end his life of doom once and for all. However, the sword had other plans.
"Oh no you don't!" it called, springing out of his grasp and bouncing on its hilt several yards away.
"Come back here!" Túrin commanded before rising to his full height and giving chase to the weapon.
"Not a chance," the sword answered, continuing to flee as best it could. "Such reckless handling might break me!"
"But I need you!" Túrin screamed like a child.
He made a dive for the sword, just missing it and managing to only inflict a paper cut on his forefinger, a fate far worse than the death he had planned. As he howled in pain, rolling about on the ground, the sword changed its trajectory and began hopping in the direction Túrin had been running from. In a few moments, it intercepted the course of Mablung and his elven companions.
"Took you long enough!" the sword gasped as it slowed its pace. "How is it that a mortal could outrun you by so much?"
Mablung, who was far less insane than Túrin, was as astonished and disturbed at the sword's apparent ability to speak and move as any normal person would be. However, the necessity of the situation kept him from either fainting or investigating, and instead he kept his mind focused on his troubled friend.
"Where's Túrin?" he asked of the blade, trying to forget how ridiculous that was.
"Up the hill a ways," Gurthang answered. "And you better tie him up or something, because in this state, who knows what he'll do?"
Mablung nodded (to a sword? he pondered in his mind) before sprinting towards the moaning from up ahead. As a result of his lack of legs, the blade took a bit longer to return to the scene he had left a few minutes ago, and by the time he had arrived, Mablung seemed to have things under control. Túrin was still writhing both in pain from the papercut and his desire to get free of his loving captors, but the elves had him securely in their grasp.
"Now we begin the journey back to Doriath, where you can regain a life of peace, Túrin," Mablung said kindly, putting his hand on the man's shoulder and sighing.
"And perhaps see a psychiatrist," one of the other elves chimed in quietly.
Mablung cast a concerned look at the hopping-and-talking sword before facing his companion directly. "I think I may need to see one as well."
. . .
Have you ever imagined an alternate ending to Túrin's terrible fate? This is certainly not the only one that's popped into my mind, but it may be the strangest. I hope you liked this one; please let me know what you thought! I am working on a few other fics, and I will have them up soon-ish (Lord willing and the creek don't rise)! Thanks for reading!