A Sort Of Homecoming

What he remembered most fondly about Dor-Lomin, aside from his family, was the landscape itself. He had loved the pure wildness of it; how everything that moved through it - the wind, the water, the animals, the people - did so in perfect freedom, and in defiance of threats from outside. It was a land of air and movement, as open as these endless caves were enclosed.

And now Saeros - Saeros the Jealous, Saeros the Petty - sat poised to mock him, and his land, and his people. This could not end well - though Túrin tried, genuinely tried, to school himself to patience. It was a monumental effort; the long days and nights abroad had worn him thin. He sat silent and still, his shoulders tensed, one hand clenched white-knuckle tight around the handle of a heavy tankard that sat already half-drained. His breath was nearer to a growl; Saeros was calm and smug, ever in his element taunting the notorious outsider. A subtle hush had fallen; all those present knew well the dynamic at work.

At last Saeros spoke, and Túrin recognized the wheels of fate spinning before him. "If the Men of Hithlum are so wild…"

***

Thanks to the ladies at GoI for the look-over, U2 for the song title I borrowed, and Binka for getting Turin stuck in my head.