Hi! For the Silm prompts list, would you consider doing 'without wish or purpose', character: Túrin?
Thank you for the prompt! I mulled this one over a long time. Despite the bleakness of the prompt, I felt compelled to give Turin, if not happiness, then at least a little bittersweetness. And I have always loved the way Turin is portrayed as a child in The Children of Hurin.
Turin receives some guidance from Sador. 800 words, rated G. On AO3.
“I cannot do it! I cannot!”
Through blurry eyes, Túrin watched the pieces of the little cart scatter across the stones. He crumpled his hands into fists and struck his thighs. He could not bear it! Nothing worked, nothing! Over and over and over again he had tried to assemble the pieces, and every time something went wrong. The wheel spokes splintered and broke. His clumsy fingers would let fall the little wooden caps, they would roll off the table and bounce across the floor and they’d be gone — gone gone gone. He did not have clever hands like Labadal, he couldn’t do it.
And now everything was strewn across the floor. Truly broken. Labadal had carved those pieces for him. Would he be hurt that Túrin had destroyed them? Túrin crossed his arms over his face to hide his shame.
“Now, son of Húrin,” said Labadal. He did not sound upset. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”
“No,” said Túrin from behind his arms.
“Very well,” said Labadal. Túrin could hear his old friend’s uneven gait shuffling over the stones. He peeped down at the floor. Labadal was sweeping up the pieces.
“Labadal,” Túrin whispered over the swish-swish of the broom. He brought his arms down slowly. “Why—” he drew a sharp breath, pulling his voice back from the edge of anger. “Why can I not do it? It is so simple. You showed me, you showed me how it all fits together, and, and I have the picture you gave me, of how it should look, but it doesn’t! I cannot make it like the picture.”
There was a gathering storm inside Túrin’s chest. He thought he might burst, unless — he broke into a run, straight towards Labadal, and threw his arms around his hips.
Labadal groaned and set a hand on Túrin’s head. Realising he might be hurting his friend, Túrin pulled back.
“Let us not worry about this cart,” said Labadal. “I think another activity would be better for you.”
“But why can I not do that one?” Túrin complained. His eyes stung.
“You can, you can.” Labadal hobbled back to the workbench, coaxing Túrin along with a hand on his back. “But I think I was too hasty in giving you this. You are eager, son of Húrin. Your mind runs quick as a rushing brook, swollen by the storm cloud.”
How did he know there was a storm cloud inside him? Labadal was the wisest person Túrin knew.
“Sometimes it is better to pause,” Labadal explained. “To stay your course, for a little while.” Then he pulled a wax tablet and wooden stylus from a drawer. He helped Túrin up onto a chair and set the tools before him.
“What do I do with it?” Túrin asked.
“Whatever you like,” said Labadal. “Follow the urgings of your hand. Give your thoughts a shape.”
Túrin crinkled his nose. He already knew how to draw shapes! He was six, not a baby. But Labadal was wise, there must be a reason he was giving Túrin this task. “What is the purpose of it?” Túrin asked.
Labadal smiled thoughtfully. “Do not think of what you wish to make of it, or what purpose it might serve.” Túrin frowned and Labadal added, “But if you must imagine a purpose — it is to order the rushing of your thoughts.”
The wax was sticky under Túrin’s finger. He picked up the stylus and scraped a circle around the dent his fingertip had made. The ends of the circle did not meet and he whined. His hands were not steady.
“I’ve ruined it already,” said Túrin.
“Rub it away,” Labadal said, and showed him how to make the lines disappear with the flat end of the stylus. “You see? Now try drawing what you are feeling.”
This time Túrin scraped a jagged line through the wax, all the way from top to bottom. He contemplated it. Yes — that was how he felt.
“Good,” said Labadal, in his quiet and steady voice. Labadal’s voice always soothed the tightness in Túrin’s chest.
Soon, Túrin had covered the tablet in lines and shapes, and erased, and began again. Labadal worked beside him, the only sound the steady scrape of his chisel. Túrin liked the silence in Labadal’s workshop. Hours passed. When a servant came to fetch him for supper, Túrin was surprised it was already evening.
“Labadal,” he said, “may I bring it home to show Mother and Father?”
“Of course,” said Labadal. “Would you like to show it to me also?”
Túrin pushed the tablet closer to Labadal. His old friend furrowed his brows and sighed, and Túrin was not sure why. Maybe Labadal did not understand what it was.
“It is my sister Lalaith, see?” he explained. “She is in a field of flowers.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Characters: Sador Labadal
Additional Tags: Children of Hurin - Freeform, Dor-lómin, Double Drabble, Canonical Character Death, reference to Turin
Summary:
Young Turin gave an elf-wrought knife to Sador, passing on his own birthday gift to him, with the promise: "a knife, just such as you need".
He refused to accept it when Sador offered it back to him when he left for Dor-lomin.
From Sador's point of view: a double drabble, two scenes involving that knife, more than twenty years apart.
