Only for a Moment, and Never Again by StarSpray  

“But they knew not that Nargothrond had fallen, and this was Túrin son of Húrin, the Black sword. Thus only for a moment, and never again, did the paths of those kinsmen, Túrin and Tuor, draw together.” 
- Unfinished Tales, ‘Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin’ 

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Dírhavel was a skilled poet and performer. His voice was deep and rich and smooth as he chanted the verses of the Narn i Chîn Húrin, completed at last. All gathered in the hall to listen sat in rapt attention; many wept, especially those who, like Dírhavel himself, were of the people of Dor-lómin. Voronwë listened with sorrow to the fall of Nargothrond and the fate of Húrin and his family, but he was aware that beside him Tuor was growing restless, shifting in his seat. Dírhavel had bowed deeply to him before beginning, recognizing that those of whom he sung were Tuor’s kin. Tuor had smiled graciously, if a little stiffly, but Voronwë had not thought him then particularly distressed.

Then Dírhavel sung of Túrin’s flight north after the Fall of Nargothrond, past the defiled waters of Ivrin as he sought for the Princess Finduilas Faelivrin, and Tuor rose suddenly from his seat, passing out of the hall without a word. Dírhavel faltered, but only for a breath before continuing. Voronwë looked to Idril, who gestured for him to go. He rose and inclined his head to Dírhavel, hoping his own departure less discomfiting, before slipping quietly away.

It was late, and the stars were out and bright, glimmering on the bay. Voronwë looked up to see Menelmacar marching across the sky. Tuor was nowhere to be seen, until Voronwë left Sirion and climbed the hills to the north, where the land fell away sharply toward the see, a sheer cliff against which the waves crashed, sending pale plums of spray high into the air. Tuor sat at the edge, legs dangling, as he gazed unseeing out toward the glimmering lights on Balar. Voronwë sat wordlessly beside him, and together they listened to the waves and to the wind in the grass behind them. Distantly, in the woods, an owl called. 

Finally, Tuor said, “You remember coming to Ivrin?”

“Yes.” 

“For years, I wondered who he was that we saw there. He was a stranger and yet I felt as though…” Tuor raised his hands to his face. “I never realized, even after hearing the tales of it—until tonight, hearing Dírhavel’s words—of Gwindor and Beleg, and Finduilas—of Mormegil, of Turambar—my kinsman, my cousin—”

Voronwë had not thought of it in many years, but he could recall clearly the despair in the strange man’s voice, as he cried out in anguish for Gwindor, for Beleg, for Faelivrin. He had been such lonely figure, and though pity had stirred in Voronwë’s heart he had also felt a deep wariness, a certainty that this was not someone to hail or to try to speak to. 

“It was not your fate to meet, Tuor,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Fate is cruel,” Tuor said without lowering his hands. “I did not know either that Morwen and Nienor lived still in Dor-lómin—I was there, for years I was there as an outlaw. I could have—if I had known I would have—”

“They were under a doom no less heavy than yours,” Voronwë said. 

“Is the power of Ulmo so much weaker than the Enemy’s?” Tuor cried. “Why was I set apart, why was I saved and they forsaken? Could I not have at least taken Nienor with me—could we not have brought her too to Gondolin and the protection of Turgon? Could I not have gone with Túrin back into—”

“No, Tuor, do not do this.” Voronwë caught his hands. “It is a cruel fate, but dwelling upon what might have been will bring you nothing but heartache. Your path was set, and you could not have strayed from it—you would not have strayed.”

“My heart aches already. He was right there—” Tuor’s voice broke, and he wept—for his cousins and and his aunt and his uncle, for his mother and his father, all gone now beyond the reach of either the Valar or the Enemy, and for the years he had spent alone, so close to kin but as unaware of them as they were of him. 

Overhead the stars continued to shine; the waves kept up their rhythm. Laughing voices were carried up to them on the breeze from the Havens. Voronwë held onto Tuor until the tears subsided; he said nothing, for what was there to say? There was no comfort for such grief, not in these ever-darkening days. 

Finally, Tuor straightened. “I must apologize to Dírhavel,” he said after a moment, but made no move to get up. 

“He will understand. There will be other nights to hear the tale sung in full.”

“I do not know if I can bear it. For all his skill—it is still a tale full of such darkness and woe.”

“But also of courage and strength. Look, Tuor.” Voronwë took him by the shoulders and turned toward the north. Dark clouds hovered over the horizon, as they always did, but above them the Sickle blazed. “Ulmo’s power wanes as the Enemy’s grows, it is true. But it is not vanquished yet! Your kinsman lay under a heavy and terrible doom, but still he slew the dragon Glaurung, when no one else could. There is great strength in the Houses of Hador and of Bëor that the Enemy, I think, has still not understood. They will not be forgotten. There is yet hope.”

“Perhaps,” Tuor murmured. He leaned against Voronwë again with a shaky sigh. “Perhaps for us, for Eärendil—but not for Húrin or for Huor, for Morwen or Rían, or Nienor, or Túrin Turambar.”

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