“In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not.”
The morning was breaking and soft rays of light streamed through the branching leaves of the forest. Beside the crashing river walked a woman cloaked in grey. Her face, surrounded by wisps of grey hair with dark streaks, was worn with age and grief. As she walked her dim grey eyes roved the woodland, searching, searching… she could not find them.
She had come, a starving beggar, to Amon Obel at nightfall.
Few were left there that welcomed strangers, and she was shunned by all but a kind middle-aged woman who took pity on her, and brought her to her thatched house. But Morwen would not speak, until her hostess questioned her, and then she said, “Tell me where my children are. I heard that the Mormegil was in Brethil.”
Her hostess was amazed and afraid, for she now knew who this decrepit creature was. But she was filled with pity, and said, “You will find them, lady of Dorlómin, at Cabad-en-Aras. Yet do not be sure of a welcome.”
Then Morwen would not tarry, and left, even though the woman cried out for her to wait for someone to guide her.
And the next morning, as the sun broke through the trees, Morwen could not see the light, for the darkness of all her life was about her. Only a small ray of hope lingered still in her soul. And she walked on, her back bent as if all the years were a great burden upon her, until she reached a great stone reared in the earth next to the ravine. With aching bones she ran to it, and dropped onto her knees before it. Her lips quivering, she whispered the words engraved there:
Túrin Turambar Dagnir Glaurunga
She traced the figures with an old withered finger, and a deep sob from the pit of her soul shuddered her thin frame, and her arm drooped and fell as complete darkness came upon her; a darkness which chilled the heart and pierced the soul. And in her mind she heard the echo of an anguished cry in the wooded hills, Morwen, Morwen, When shall I see you again? “Soon, my son,” she whispered.
She did not know how long she lay there, for time did not seem to pass in her impenetrable grief, but when she at last looked up, the shadows were long, and she saw him standing before her. White hair and knobbed and wrinkled flesh did not disguise the majesty and pride of the man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. He stood graven as a stone image, as if he were not real, but some ancient statue remembering the glory of days gone for ever.
At last she spoke. “You have come at last. I have waited long.”
“It was a dark road. I have come as I could.” he said.
“But you are too late. They are lost. Tell me, if you know: how did she find him?”
But Húrin was silent, and as the evening fell and the sun slipped over the rim of the world, Morwen sighed, and grasping his hand, died. And the grief on her face was smoothed away, and she lay, a serene image of solitude in that place where such horror had come to pass.
“She was not conquered,” he said.
Author’s note: Some quotes in this are taken from The Silmarillion and Narn i Hîn Húrin. This was also inspired by the above quote in Matthew.