A drabble about Húrin. I've always been sure there's more to the end of his story that the Quenta didn't tell. Several ideas about continuations are floating around in my head, so keep watch just in case I update... And please comment!
Obligatory Disclaimer: Beleriand, the First Age of Arda, and all that are therein are copyright J. R. R. Tolkien, heirs, and assigns. Lines in italics are direct quotes from Silmarillion, authored and copyrighted by the same. Used by permission of Suntrust v. Houghton Mifflin (268 F. 3d 1257 (2001)), First Amendment, et al.

"You come at last. I have waited too long."
"It was a dark road. I have come as I could."
"But you are too late. They are lost."
"I know it. But you are not."
"I am spent... If you know, tell me! How did she find him?"
But Húrin did not answer...

... and he gazed long into the eyes of the Queen...

The Queen and King of Doriath, which had abandoned him, which had cast his family out, which had even abandoned their own friend Finrod Edennil rather than help Beren...

... and strange images came at him. He was not disturbed or dissuaded in the least; had seen many pictures from the Morgoth's tower. Yet in another moment, he saw that none had been like this. Never had he seen any beings in all Beleriand like these assembled here in great harmony! They reminded him for a moment of the Elves - and then of the Sun itself in all her glory - but they were beyond all comparison. And he stared dumbly at the avalanches of love and mercy in their song

- and across that came a picture of himself standing before the Morgoth, flinging at him the challenge, "You lie!"

- and he remembered (how had he forgotten?) that the Queen sitting before him was a Maia, an Ainu, one of the Powers from before the world was imagined. Before him sat one of the people of the Lords of the West. It was the Morgoth who warred against them. They were, of course, under Illúvatar - but how could a mortal man simply presume them wrong without giving them a just hearing?

And from whence had he watched? Angband. And with whose sight had he seen? The Morgoth's. And what did the Morgoth's sight bring to everything it touched? Shadow. And in the Shadow, one knows not which way he goes.

What had he done? With the words of the Morgoth, he had rebuked the sister of the Powers. With the sight of the Morgoth, he had accused the Elvenking of betrayal. With the will of the Morgoth, he had... revealed Gondolin. Beforetimes, the Morgoth himself, the Dark Lord, the Black Shadow, had stood over him and challenged him to reveal Gondolin and blaspheme the Powers. Then, he had held steadfast. Now?

He tasted what he had done. And he knew who had measured for him this fullness of woe. How could he repay a fraction of all the harm he had done? How could he repay a fraction of all the benevolence he had beheld with no more wits than a stone?

Finally, released from the gaze of the spirit formed before the chords of the world, he saw Queen Melian and King Thingol with the same eyes that had long ago beheld the hidden Turgon. Then, he had disputed, yes, and been given a grace beyond all reckoning prior or since - yet he had not demanded but pleaded. Even apart from the majesty of their kindred, even apart from the blessedness of Aman all around them, they had reigned and learned for years of Great Years before his ancestors had first crossed the mountains out of Shadow. What could he do to pardon himself, from his crime greater by far than any his son might have committed?

He picked up the one gift left to him at all worthy of a king. "Receive now, lord, the Necklace of the Dwarves, as a gift from one who as nothing."

Thingol's face softened as he perceived - mayhap - something of the immeasurable gift his wife had given. Some of the Elves about the throne gasped as they saw the Nauglamír glimmering in the light. Mablung the Captain of the Guard - longtime friend of Beleg who had died for Túrin - looked at Húrin again with pity, but now Húrin was grateful. Melian said nothing, as she had said next to nothing since the day Beren had first left, but Húrin had seen enough of her heart to know she was pleased.

He was grateful, yes. He was all but certain that if he stayed silent for one more moment, someone would hint or outright offer that he could stay here - a fireside pensioner, kept out of the mercy of their hearts. But he was still Húrin Thalion, rightful lord of Dor-Lomin. Long ago when he had done nothing whether good or ill, he had refused to stay in Gondolin, aging vainly toward the death that (he was sure) had also come from the Morgoth. Now, when he had haplessly done nearly as much evil as Ulfang the Traitor, he must do some other deed. "... and as a memorial of Húrin of Dor-lómin," he continued. "For now my fate is fulfilled, and the purpose of Morgoth achieved, but I am his thrall no longer!"

And then, without waiting for any further word, he turned from the presence of the King and Queen and passed out from the Thousand Caves and out of the chronicles told of those days, and none sought to withstand his going, nor did any know whither he went.