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There had been two dozen in the halls that evening when she had followed Brodda there, silent and numb. All of them lie dead or have fled into the cold hills. The night is quiet but she knows it will not be for long. Not all who fled the halls left with Túrin.
She steps inside for the last time. The fire in the hearth is dying. Broken glass and wooden splinters shatter the ground.
Aerin looks at Brodda’s body for just a moment. Lifeless and twisted.
For a man of so much violence it had taken so little to end him.
She walks to the table where she had been forced to sit beside him and play her cruel role. It had been splintered off in the chaos. She picks up one of the broken legs. It is heavy in her hand as she drags it across the floor. In her other hand she takes a torch from the wall, one of the few left. It is too warm to hold but she does anyways until she has walked the length of the hall to the other one left. She drags it over the banners bearing their hateful marks. Sparks fall upon her shoulders.
Aerin drops the torch.
She knows Túrin will never reach Morwen. She knows no help will come.
She walks back towards the night that will soon dawn a frigid grey. The flames leap over the table and the tapestry. She feels no warmth from them.
The house burns for a very long time.