Shut out, Húrin departs for Nargothrond
A desolated place now by all shunned:
Sometime elf kingdom – ruined, burnt and wracked
By dragon-flame. Its enemies had sacked
And left it empty. Just a twelvemonth past
He’d witnessed that his son died at the last
A suicide whose victory brought him shame:
His death alone might atone for his fame.
Nearby to Túrin’s tomb he heard a voice.
No! Morwen? Too despairing to rejoice
Húrin approached to where he heard the sound
And sits himself beside her on the ground.
Morwen is older now, still stern and proud.
She sits awhile before speaking aloud
Reclining on the tomb of her dead son.
‘How did he die?’ But no word spake Húrin.
Should he reveal their son’s disgrace and shame?
Was Túrin free entirely from blame?
So he said nothing. Waiting hand in hand
Past nightfall as the stars illume the land
The pair gaze silent on the cresting foam
Of Narog as it passes the tombstone.
At sunrise, Morwen glances round, then sighed
Squeezes his hand once more. Then Morwen died.
Húrin beholds his wife a little more
Then stands. He is alone – just as before!
Beside her son, he Morwen buries there
‘She who remained unconquered.’ Then to fare
To Nargothrond his solo steps make way.
When he arrives, ’tis clear by light of day
The ruined city was a dragon-home:
His darkened lair now silent as the tomb.
He killed the traitor dwarf that crossed his path
Whose blood suffices to assauge his wrath:
His son’s betrayer’s blood spilt in that cave.
Now Nargothrond stands silent as the grave.
Húrin first-hand observes within that place
How for the elves their certain end had sped.
In silence do his eyes now gravely trace
Woeful destruction where defenders bled
As foes across the bridge passed Narog’s streams.
His scans the dragon-treasure. His hands sift
To select one. Then making, as it seems,
His way to Doriath his footsteps shift.
His wife, his son, and too his daughter dead!
On this last journey are his footsteps sped.
What now remains? What futures yet to rue?
His hopes are dead. His inner darkness grew.
When finally he stood before King Thingol
He angrily declaimed with bitter dole:
Upbraiding Thingol for his lack of care
Of his own kin. But Húrin’s speaking there
By Thingol went unanswered. Strong pity
Thingol there felt for Húrin. Misery
And suffering writ upon his face clear told
How Morgoth’s lies around his soul enfold
And twist his thoughts with vile half-truths and lies
To darken his perceptions in this wise.
Then Melian spoke. Her healing words of balm
Broke into Húrin’s thought to bring him calm.
Her words smashed all the chains that bound his mind
The mental fetters Morgoth left behind.
Now staring into Melian’s clear eyes
Húrin perceives the truth. What his surprise!
Now fully undeceived, no longer thrall
To Morgoth – he now comprehends it all.
With noble words, to Thingol Húrin speaks
Presents the Nauglamir. Next Húrin seeks
His exit from the halls of Menegroth
Nor is he hindered in his setting forth.
While the king gazes on the Simaril –
A kingly gift! – that soon ensnares Thingol
And for which with his blood he pays its debt:
So also Doriath. But not just yet.
So Húrin wanders out of Doriath
To westward on a long and wildered path
That ends at last hard by the western sea.
Far from all elves and men thus sojourned he
Upon the shore beside the briny waves
Whose actions wash the sand it daily laves.
Of everything bereft: kith, kin and home,
His line extinguished, all his great deeds done:
Húrin one day into the sea he casts
Himself. Thus Húrin finds his rest at last.
Thus perished Húrin, mightiest of men.
Nor shall this world behold his like again.
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