My Son
By The Last Evenstar
A/N: Just a short drabble; my way of taking a break from Into the Shadow. Based largely on Narn i Hîn Húrin from Unfinished Tales and The Lays of Beleriand. Two pieces of Túrin's dialogue are taken from Lays.
Dedication: To Cassie, because she said she would read it.
He makes his way to the threshold, and I wonder at the sudden change in his stride. Nay, by no means has my boy become a man, for always in my heart shall young Túrin seem a babe. But he walks more slowly now, with his head held high and eyes fixed on the horizon.
He knows, then, that he has no mother now.
His eyes rest on me for a moment, and I can see the babe fighting to surface in his strong grey eyes. But my son beats him down, and coldness envelops him.
He reaches for me, but I draw back, seeing not the son I strive to protect, but the man I loved and hated for so long.
Húrin, I think bitterly. If not for his foolery at the hands of Morgoth, my son might stay. He might be mine again, if only for the fleeting years of childhood.
But as the hurt gathers in his eyes, he knows that he has no mother now.
"Quickly will I come from the courts of Thingol," he tells me, speaking with air of one superior, "long ere manhood I will lead to Morwen great tales of treasure, and true comrades."
Morwen! He used to call me naneth. My breath catches in my throat. I want to scream out, to tell him not to go, that it's all been a terrible mistake.
But pride, my foolish mistress since birth, takes hold of me. I glance at him coldly, nodding, all the while telling myself over and over again that it's best for Túrin.
I kneel, holding the babe Nienor in my arms. "Spare a kiss, then, for your little sister," I command, hoping against hope that this will not be the last parting of my children.
Túrin looks down at the babe, a foreign object by his mind. As he places a gentle kiss to her shorn head, I know that he is thinking of Urwen.
There will be no lalaith for my son again.
He turns to go, striding beside two figures twice his height, but somehow he is taller then either of them.
"Farewell," I call after him, praying that in my cool tone he will recognize the mother who loved him all his life. The mother who sat faithfully by him in sickness, who told him tales of brave heroes and fallen martyrs.
But he does not turn back; instead, he marches on, determined to join their ranks.
As he disappears over the hill, I fight to quell my wailing heart. It has been ingrained since childhood that emotion makes one weak, and I know that had the training been any less, emotion would overpower me now, reduce me to a sobbing heap.
Instead, I watch my son, all of his mother's bitterness and his father's spirit, disappear from my life.
My son, I pray, tarry not in the darkness, for naught awaits you there. I remember Húrin, and tell myself there is no use in wishing that he had heeded the same advice.
They say I have the foresight of my people, but whether for fear or love, I cannot see the future of my son.
The hills cry with anguish. "My home is gone!" they wail, crying from the throat of a babe on a man's journey.
I fight the urge to run to him, to catch up and tell him why I sent him away. Instead, I simply stand and pray that someday, he will know for himself.
I watch in anguish as day fades into dusk, and still I stand on the threshold with the babe in my arms. As the sun sets, I allow a single tear to fall and bid farewell to my boy.
My son.
