A short story collection featuring Thranduil, Legolas, Halbrand, Galadriel, Túrin, Finduilas, Galion, Elrohir and Elladan. There will be a dragon duel, an arranged marriage, a Dark Queen and a Dark Lord and much more. New stories and snippets are ad...
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Art by Denis Gordeev
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Túrin and the Dragon – Part 2 of 5: Wakened
Go to thy kin.
Snowflakes hit Túrin's face in sharp, cold stings. Somehow it had become winter while he was running north, but again he had lost track of time and couldn't say when it happened. Perhaps it was the altitude doing it, for he noticed he was jogging through the secret pass in the Ered Wethrin mountains, south of Dor-lómin.
Not far left now.
He was very thirsty, but up here all water sources were frozen and the snow was too scarce to gather. Túrin tried to catch snowflakes on his tongue, feeling them melt and form tiny droplets. It only worsened his thirst so he gave up. Soon he would be back home and could drink his fill from the well.
As he came closer to the end of the pass, he began to recognize landmarks he hadn't seen since he was a small boy. Over there was that wolfhead-shaped cliff overhang, and there the ancient oak, and further ahead he spotted the glade where he had hunted rabbits with Sador Hopafoot. Cheered by the familiar sights Túrin increased his pace.
He rounded a hill, and at last the house where he was born appeared, sitting snugly in a vale at the foot of the mountains. It looked suspiciously abandoned – there was no smoke coming from the chimneys, and the windows were dark – but he tried to keep his hopes up. Perhaps they just lacked firewood.
A small village surrounded the manor house, with several cottages, two farmsteads and a few shanties where the servants had lived. The dirt road leading through the village more resembled an animal track now, overgrown with weeds and grass, and the buildings on either side clearly were deserted; their doors hung on broken hinges and those windows which had had glass panels were smashed. Glancing through one, Túrin saw a mess of overturned furniture under a thick coating of dust.
Still he trudged on. It could be a ruse; a way for his mother and sister to protect themselves. Maybe everyone lived in the great house now, both the lady and her people. It would be easier to defend a single building.
He had reached the gates now but to his dismay one of the doors was smashed in halves and the other missing completely. Inside, a startled rat scurried across the floor as Túrin entered, and the air smelled dusty and stale.
Continuing further he saw that the hearth in the large hall was cold. Nobody lived here, he knew that now, but just in case he searched all the rooms for any signs of his family.
He found almost nothing. The place had been ransacked long ago, thoroughly looted by an unknown enemy.
Walking through his childhood home, Túrin felt tears burn in the corners of his eyes. It held so many memories of that rare, long lost time when he had been a little boy, untouched by violence and hardship. He had had a father and a mother, and a best friend in old Sador Hopafoot.
