Anglachel was the earlier name of the blade, before it got reforged into Gurthang; the sword Túrin Turumbar would hold for the rest of his life. It was made by the dark elf Ëor, and remade by the smiths of Nargothrond. Beleg Cúthalion, chief warden of the elven king Thingol, held Anglachel before he was killed by Túrin, who was unaware the elf had been his friend. Gwindor, another friend, kept the sword with him until Túrin came back to his senses.
As the sword got reforged, Túrin named it Gurthang, which roughly translates to “Iron of Death”. After the naming of the blade, Túrin became known as Mormegil; the “Black Sword”.
The next big moment of the blade, was when Túrin used it to slay the dragon Glaurung. Upon discovering that his wife, Nienor Níniel, was also his sister, and that she had killed herself, the man fell into a state of panic and despair. In his pain, he used Gurthang to slay himself. With the death of his master, Gurthang shattered to the floor, the shards to be buried with Túrin and Nienor underneath the Stone of Hapless.
“Hail Gurthang! 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?” Túrin had asked his blade, to which it responded with “Yea, I will drink thy blood gladly, that so I may forget the blood of Beleg my master, and the blood of Brandir slain unjustly. I will slay thee swiftly.”
Season drabbles for Morwen or well, drabbles might be a bit generous, these are just a few scenes living rent free in my brain that I’m getting out and will hopefully embellish later
send me a character and a season and I’ll write a ficlet. Or just a character and I’ll do all four to six (basic temperate climate seasons plus the other two named in both Quenya and Sindarin) Heck, send me a non temperate climate season and I’ll try my best! I did not do the elven named seasons for Morwen.
Some of them involve the headcanons I talked about on theseposts, not necessary to read, I just like to link things to organize Also involves my headcanon that Aerin is the family horse girl (gender neutral, Húrin is the second one).
CW: children displaced after war and violence, aftermath of war and violence, briefly implied sexism and othering, unintentional but still harmful emotional neglect like what’s mentioned here, medical trauma housekeeping note at the end
Winter
The healers of Brethil do not like her. They see only her wounds and that she, half taken by the delirium of fever and grief, will not allow them near her. Of course, she is barely twelve, is in no state to stop them and what is it she wants to stop? Foolish, reckless, stupidchild. She is held down by her legs and shoulders so she lies on her stomach, her clothes and hair cut away so the burn wounds beneath can be properly washed. She had struggled against them until she realized that no amount of thrashing or crying would change anything. Morwen hated herself for ever thinking it would. It was then that the pain from the wounds suddenly intensified and then faded away with something, everything else. Morwen remembers the cool rough wood of the table beneath her as she went limp, the winter storm raging beyond the fragile doors of the healer’s house.
Spring She shares a cramped corner with Rían, the younger girl all skinny limbs and sharp joints that curl against her, prodding the newly placed bandages on her side. Morwen had spent nearly an evening soothing her cousin to sleep while the adults had largely ignored them and ignored or forgotten that Morwen does not yet know how to soothe Rían in the timely fashion they require. So, she does not wake her despite her own discomfort. Perhaps she will fall asleep to the rain outside, the rain that has broken through the frozen ground so their clothes hung to dry will soon be ruined. Morwen has not yet gotten used to how wet everything now is, the leaves and grass, the ground, their few possessions they have since gathered since their arrival. They are no longer in Ladros and will never be again.
Summer
The summers here are humid and damp. Morwen has lingered for some time by the well because it lies in a shaded grove and shade is rare among the open plains of Dor-lómin. A man and woman waiting beside the well on the outskirts of the village stare openly at her. There was a grace period perhaps where she could plausibly believe their staring was simply because she was a strange child new among their people. But years have passed since the time this might have been their excuse. Their surprise, alarm even at her returned cold indifference (even after they have only just spoken of her in such a way to imply that indifference would be expected) is a barbed satisfaction as she hears their words, collects them with the water she has been sent for.
Their occasional praise of her beauty feels as a poison, cold and alien in the late day heat.
Autumn “You are going to die!” Húrin cries in a sing-song warning and it is this that nearly throws Aerin off her routine as she laughs, her head back and eyes momentarily closed. She regains her balance however and lands gracefully. Morwen watches the exchange with a mild amusement. The worst of the summer has passed and the air is cool and bright. Leaves scatter along the ground, falling beneath the feet of Aerin as she offers her eager horse a baked treat in thanks and wanders over to sit beside them.
(I hope these are ok! I had to fight myself to not overdo the Summer entry. I think a lot about that stuff and part of my just sort of wanted to list adjectives Morwen had been named, both good and bad but that probably would be a waste of time.
Housekeeping note: I’ve been talking a lot in DMs with one or two people about my two longer dark fics about Morwen, I’ve avoided talking about them too much here because unlike the Angband stuff, they’re a lot less fantastically dark and more just…dark in a realistic way (which honestly is the general atmosphere to me of The Narn but that’s an entirely different story). I still think my two fics have FUN or intriguing and fantastical elements, they just honestly are harder to tag/warn for if that makes sense? ANYWAYS rambling aside I’m always happy to discuss them and other stuff that’s mostly in my brain and drafts and not here with others in DMs
This is a rough one! I also am very sick and sad so I feel it’s terrible but
Discussion of Lalaith’s death and taunting about it, mentions of torture and sexual assault, injuries and blood loss, some dehumanization
“Tell me of your daughter.”
Húrin raised eyes narrowed from wariness and from the blossoming of bruises that had half shut one eye and blurred the other.
“That is not your usual question,” the indifference is so forced his mouth is bitter. The Vala smiles widely and steps closer to him
Húrin grits his teeth and says nothing. He is exhausted, aching from the litany of tortures Morgoth had contrived today alone. The various whips of course, ones that bit into his skin and pulled like brambles. Then, a strange, sinister device that filled his mouth and stretched his jaw until he was choking on an unnatural cold that coated and stuck to the soft tissue and swallowed his screams. His voice had not recovered for some time after. It seemed to Húrin he was forever half healed, the hurts from past abuses opened and reopened again and again.
Following this, his hair had been roughly seized and bunches of it hanging around his ears to his shoulders had been sheared off, leaving jagged cuts on his scalp and the back of his neck. The bucket of frigid water that had been unceremoniously dumped over his head had not been sufficient in removing the blood and loose strands which still stuck to him.
During the previous session, the hilt of an elven blade had been shoved inside him when he had refused to identify it as of Gondolin or elsewhere. The bleeding had not slowed until he was dizzy and limp though not nearly so unaware that he could not also suffer the indignity of the injury being treated with the intimate application of a burning salve. It still hurt to walk and his balance was precarious even now as he stood before Morgoth, wrists wrapped in a cold, rusted chain that connected to the iron collar about his neck.
The Vala tugs on the chain almost thoughtfully as he continues.
“Your little girl. I heard she was lost to fever not four years past.”
“A fever you sent!” Húrin spits at him. The Dark Lord ignores this outburst, or rather, he allows it. Relishes it. The tension in the man’s body, the clenching of his fists…Morgoth’s eyes dart hungrily over him, taking in each sign.
“You must have been in such distress,” the silken gentleness that enters His voice makes bile rise in Húrin’s still raw throat, “To see her pain and be so helpless to stop it.”
He remembers Lalaith’s cold, clammy little hands clutching at him before the healers deemed it too dangerous for them to remain with her, remembers when her laughter stopped and then her speech and humming. He makes a sound in his throat, a half formed sob that takes his breath away.
Morgoth, still watching him, nods as though satisfied.
“Did you tell her you wished Ada could take all the pain for her?”
The flood of grief and rage that took him needed an outlet, no matter how reckless.
“Shut up!”
“It is far too late, is it not, Thalion, to take her pain? But I can show you quite easily what that pain was.” Morgoth holds his eyes as he draws a vial from his dark robes which seem to fold back of their own accord.
Húrin will have little clear memory of the next period. The fever rages through his battered body and it is not long before it feels as though any liquid held within him is gone. He gasps and pants, having frantically clawed at his own filthy, tattered robes, tearing them off and leaving ragged scratches down his arms.
Morgoth watches him with some satisfaction though the man is much too far gone to taunt. Occasionally his eyes dart up or to the side as though he has heard someone else in the small chambers.
It matters not that Morgoth must order a treatment given before one full day and night has passed, it will feel far longer to the tortured man. The Vala leaves his healers to their restoration, giving Húrin one more glance, drinking in the wild fear and misery in his eyes as his newly cut hair is pulled back so a small bottle can he tilted into his mouth
The water they pour down his throat renews his grief and his tears long before his sanity.
(I have the scene with the sword hilt written for the record)
“Therefore Húrin was brought before Morgoth, for Morgoth knew that he had the friendship of the King of Gondolin; but Húrin defied him, and mocked him. Then Morgoth cursed Húrin and Morwen and their offspring, and set a doom upon them of darkness and sorrow; and taking Húrin from prison he set him in a chair of stone upon a high place of Thangorodrim. There he was bound by the power of Morgoth, and Morgoth standing beside him cursed him again; and he said: ‘Sit now there; and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom thou lovest. Thou hast dared to mock me, and to question the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes thou shalt see, and with my ears thou shalt hear; and never shalt thou move from this place until all is fulfilled unto its bitter end.’”
“Now the phalanx of the guard of the King broke through the ranks of the Orcs, and Turgon hewed his way to the side of his brother; and it is told that the meeting of Turgon with Húrin, who stood beside Fingon, was glad in the midst of battle. Then hope was renewed in the hearts of the Elves; and in that very time, at the third hour of morning, the trumpets of Maedhros were heard at last coming up from the east, and the banners of the sons of Fëanor assailed the enemy in the rear. Some have said that even then the Eldar might have won the day, had all their hosts proved faithful; for the Orcs wavered, and their onslaught was stayed, and already some were turning to flight.”
“Last of all Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield, and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog until it withered, and each time that he slew Húrin cried: ‘Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!’ Seventy times he uttered that cry; but they took him at last alive, by the command of Morgoth, for the Orcs grappled him with their hands, which clung to him still though he hewed off their arms; and ever their numbers were renewed, until at last he fell buried beneath them. Then Gothmog bound him and dragged him to Angband with mockery.”
This is his last journey, he understands that well. There is a softness in him, a light that shines deep within, though still the darker side of him tempts him towards a violent future.
Tarot card commission for @hufflepuffgeologist. I so rarely get to do Lord of the Rings content, I was so excited for this one.
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