Tales from Rivendell: The Passing of Hurin by Richard_Inglorion

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Chapter 1

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Tales from Rivendell: The Passing of Hurin

 

          “From the old days, few return from the battlefield”

 

 

          In a courtyard there sat three men, but only one of them was of mortal race.  That was young Valandil.  After their fleet landed on the shores of Middle Earth, his people had sent him as an emissary.  He was long-limbed and given to roaming, but his vigorous youth was belied by the seriousness in his grey eyes.  He was resting casually on the edge of a glittering fountain. 

          Since his arrival in Rivendell, he often spent time with the master of the house.  Elrond Half-elven was a captain of the Noldor, and had been sent inland from the coast to create a strong place against the threat of war; so, his house was a fortress.  But Elrond was also a master of lore, and shared the valley with scholars and musicians. 

          The third member of the party was an old man with a white beard.  He wore grey clothing and had no name, except what he had been given upon his arrival days before.  He came with Cirdan’s blessing; in fact, he was an emissary from Valinor.  

          Elrond and the grey pilgrim were seated in chairs with high backs and wooden footrests.  The council of war was held in this court when necessary.  While peace lasted, Elrond liked to come here after supper to breathe the mountain air. 

          Over the last few days, the three of them had come to the court every evening.  The stranger—they called him Mithrandir—was newly come to this world, and he wanted to know the history of its people.  Few had studied this history more deeply than Master Elrond.  Each time he told a different story, and Valandil also came to hear.  Elrond told them of the children of Iluvatar: Elves, the firstborn, and the Followers, Men.  He had ancestors himself from both races, and had sympathy for all. 

          On this crisp evening, he had a particular story in mind.  It was of the greatest warrior of the First Age, the man, Hurin, who was called, the Steadfast.  His companions, seated nearby, were ready to hear.  In a remembering voice, he began,

          “This story is told from the latter days of the First Age of Middle Earth, being set within a time of waiting, a respite from war, when old warriors would sometimes return, struggling across the wasted lands.  This was between the end of the wars of Beleriand fought by the High Elves against the might of Morgoth, and the searching out of their last stronghold, the hidden city of Gondolin.  In that time, the free peoples of the world no longer had the strength to make war on the dark power.  The Elves’ power dwindled, and the curse of Fëanor was heavy upon them.  Their hope was not yet born, and they waited for the final stroke.

          In the final battle of the wars of Beleriand, men of the Three Houses of the Edain took part, fighting beside the Elves.  These were the great grandfathers of Men, valiant in battle and steadfast of heart.  Of these, mightiest was Húrin Thalion, son of Galdor, son of Hador the Goldenhaired. 

          The fifth battle was afterwards called the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.  For in it fell Fingon, High King of the Elves, as well as countless numbers of the free peoples, gathered for the great assault.  Turgon, Hidden King of the Elves, would have fallen in that battle as well, but for the part Húrin played, along with his brother Huor.  For, beyond hope, Turgon appeared from Gondolin, and the Gondolindrim came forth to war, and the beauty and prowess of the Hidden People was revealed.  But the power of Morgoth could not be overcome, and Fingon was slain, and the sons of Fëanor were driven in rout and scattered.  The host of Gondolin was hopelessly outnumbered. 

          Now, between the field of battle and the concealed caves beneath the Encircling Mountains wherein lay the entrance to Gondolin, there was a narrow ravine that followed the River Sirion.  And Húrin purposed that he and his people should hold the Pass, so that the Gondolindrim, escaping the battle, should regain the safety of their Hidden City.  Turgon would have opposed this council, but then Tuor spoke, and he prophesied a new hope for Elves and Men.  “From you and from me a new star shall rise”, he told Turgon, and so the King assented, and the Gondolindrim departed.  But Húrin, standing beside his brother, was amazed, and he believed in what Huor had spoken, and in that hour a new fire blazed in his heart.  Then, the hosts of the enemy came forward with overwhelming force, and soon the warriors of the House of Hador lay stricken on the field of battle.  Huor was shot through the eye with a poisoned arrow, but Húrin was captured, and taken to Angbad as a prisoner.

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          There were flames burning before his eyes and a hideous laughter in his ears—and then the spell was broken.  Húrin rose, but as he stood, he stumbled and had to clutch the cold iron of his chair for support.  The vision was gone now—it was gone—and he could see no farther than the frail white hands which held the arms of the chair, the hard stones of the fortress around and beneath him, the high, sharp hills of Thangorodrim in the distance, the gate passing beneath them.  He didn’t know why he had been released.  It was surely some device of cruelty and mockery, for such were all the ways of the Enemy.  But Húrin had never yet quailed before him.  He descended the stair.

          At the foot of that stair was a landing, and then another stair of five hundred steps.  This also he descended.  He could have continued in this way, stair after stair, until he reached the very basement of Hell.  But he was not going that way.  Instead, he stopped when he reached the ground, and he lingered a moment.  It was burned and blackened ground, strangled of all life, but it was ground.  Suspended in the lofty towers of the fortress, where he was held prisoner, he had not stood on the ground for thirty years.  He made for the gate. 

          His body was wasted, but his posture was upright.  He wondered if his release was some further trick of the Enemy.  The malice of Morgoth is beyond the reckoning of Men.  He stepped over frozen streams of liquefied metal and shards of broken glass.  He had watched the lives of his kin out in the larger world for thirty years, transfixed by the horrible vision of Morgoth.  His happiness had been shorn away as time decays the buried bodies of the dead, shaven to the bones and polished until they shine.

          The tunnel was long, and at last he came to the gate at the other side.  It had been left ajar.  Massive it was and strong, and it had not been breached in war since the mighty youth of the Elves, before the coming of Men.  Húrin felt lonely and small passing through it.  The spies of the Enemy must have been all around him, but they hid themselves.  “So I am to be released,” he thought to himself. 

          He walked out into the great plain until he could no longer make out the gate at the foot of the mountains behind him.  The plain had once been green and many horses had run wild over it, but it was desert now.  Húrin thought of Beren and Lúthien crossing over it, disguised, he in the hide of a werewolf and she in the winged fell of a great bat.  When they had passed over this place it was still blackened and scorched from the fires of war.  It seemed an age ago now, for the wind and rain had sifted through the dead grass, and only sand remained.

          He wandered thus for many days, stopping when he grew tired, walking in day and night alike.  He would sometimes come upon a stream, and he found such food as his remembered woodcraft allowed, and so he supported himself.  When he came to the mouth of Sirion, he left the plain and followed the river.  He entered the ravine, and after a time he came to the ruin of Tol Sirion, the tower where Beren was held prisoner.  But Lúthien coming had rescued him and destroyed the tower.  And Beren had continued with his quest and gone on to make the greatest deed yet seen in Middle Earth.  For he had entered into the very presence of the Enemy and cut from his iron crown one of the unsurpassable jewels of the Elves.  “This deed was wrought by a man!” Húrin thought to himself, as he sat in the ruin.  But the moment passed and he continued his lonely journey.

          Leaving the ruined tower, he crossed the River Sirion.  He continued to follow its banks on the other side, walking within sight of the foothills of the Encircling Mountains.  He purposed to seek refuge with the Elves, re-entering the Hidden City of Gondolin.  In his youth he had been flown to the Court of the King by the eagles, but now it was all he could do to find the hidden entrances through the rock.  That might have been an opening, there.  But the rock confounds him.  He is standing before the impenetrable wall of the mountains, shut out from the City of the Elves.  The wall is before him and behind him are all the trackless paths of the wilderness.  And in his grief and anger he begins to speak to the stone.

          “Why do you abandon me, friends?  Why leave me standing on your doorstep in the lonely wild?  Did I not fight beside you in days past?  I was once a guest in your fair city, but it seems that it shall not be so again.  Why am I left out in the cold?

          “Ah, it is because I am a Man!  Truly, the fates of Elves and Men are sundered.  To Elves are given the earth and the stars, the forests and valleys beneath the Moon.  To Men, the Sun of labor and the starless night of death.  Why do we linger on, except that what comes after is more terrible still?  What consolation is there for us in this world or the next?  Strange are the gifts of Men!

          “Would that I were born of Elvenkind, destined for peace in this world.  Not to fear the cold touch of mortality.  When the world wearies me, to return to my home in Valinor, and when healed of my hurts—should it please me—to re-enter the world.  But not for Men!  We have no home, nor place of returning.  We must cling to this life, for it is all that we have.  And yet we know that even should we keep it safe from the dangers of the world, we must still lose it in time to old age.

          “How then can we have kinship with Elves?  Can a tree of the forest hold converse with the mayfly of a day?  The Elves practice their skill and wisdom through an endless life.  Should they fail utterly in their assault, they have only to return and sit in the lap of the Valar, far to the West, where no man has ever come.  I had hoped once… but no more.  We Men struggle against the Enemy, against Death.  We have no hope of peace.  And in our pain-maddened state, even our brave and valiant deeds are turned against us.  O Turin, my son!”

          And here he broke off, weeping and pounding his fists against the rock.  It would have moved King Turgon greatly to see what had become of his friend.  But in that time the scouts of Gondolin were far afield, seeking tidings of the fall of Nargothrond.  And the outer walls were tightly closed and concealed against the spies of the Enemy.

          Thus, grieving, Húrin fell into a fitful sleep.  The sun went down beyond the northern mountains, and then rose up again, peeking over the crags beneath which he slept.  When it was nearly midday, he roused himself, and continued on his lonely journey.  He made now for Nargothrond.  He again crossed the Sirion, and entered Brethil Forest. 

          Húrin was released from Angband at the end of summer, but it was fully autumnal when he entered upon the path under the trees of the forest.  The leaves were red and orange and yellow, calling forth memories of nights spent with companions around the smoky campfire.  And as the sun passed through the leaves, its light was transmuted into colors and vague shapes, and it seemed then to Húrin that he saw visions and things remembered from his long watching.

          First, he saw a high hill on an empty plain.  The land was scarred by war, but here was a strong place, where one might look out and see the enemy approaching far off.  He saw a tiny figure kneeling before a mighty lord.  The man was tall, and he was wearing a high helm, painted with the red figure of a dragon.  Around him were gathered many men, who looked to him as their captain and leader.  His face was beautiful and he stood proudly upon his hill, defending it and the surrounding country against marauders.  Then, another figure joined him, clad all in green and brown and with a long bow across his shoulders.  The two stood together, and for a time there was peace.  But then the war quickened, and Húrin saw that the hill was burning.  There were unnatural colors in the fire—darksome purple, and a lurid green—and the smoke was heavy and black.  The bow was broken, and the helm was thrown into a tarn of oily, black water. 

          Next, he saw a bridge.  It was built of stone, and stretched solidly across a gorge beneath which rushed a swift river.  Across this bridge came a great force of men at arms, led by a mighty warrior.  He was grim to look upon, for his face was covered entirely by a grey battle mask.  Behind the men followed massive artillery, ballistas and catapults, filled with great store of shot and rocks and large, wooden arrows.  This army passed over the bridge to the terror of its foes, and then passed back into the city to rest.  And yet, it seemed to Húrin that the warrior never took off his mask, although greatly he wished to see the face of his son.  Then, the enemy came with a greater army than any had imagined, and they filled all of the plain with their endless ranks of spears.  The men could not withstand them.  They fled into the city, and would have torn down the bridge behind them, but it was solid and would not be moved.  Then, passing over the bridge, the enemy entered the city and destroyed it utterly.

          Finally, he saw a wary hunter crouched in a river gorge.  As the man looked up from the depths, smoke and fire passed over the empty space, and the smell was evil.  Húrin could feel the fear of the villagers, gathering up their belongings and scattering in all directions.  The man had companions, but they fled when they saw the dragon’s fire.  Túrin—for it was he—stood his ground, and he held a black sword, glinting dully.  As the dragon slid over the gorge, he rose to his feet.  It seemed then that the black sword struck out of the ground, and buried itself in the dragon’s scales.  Túrin’s face was grim, as the black, poisonous blood poured out.  But he held firm to his purpose, and brought the dragon down.

          Seeing these things was too much for Húrin.  He buried his face in his hands, but still the images continued, helm and mask and sword.  He saw a man betrayed by the treachery of the petty and small, betrayed by his own pride, and tossed on the black waters of fate.  There was confusion and death all around him.  The promise of the beautiful face was gone.  No grace was left to the man in the ravine, nor wisdom.  Only the strength of his arms and the firmness of his will, his black sword embedded in the writhing dragon.  “And no other could have done this deed, with the help of the Valar or not,” he said, and he shook his head.  For Húrin was not a man to give up his pride.

          Other stories tell of Húrin’s trip to Nargothrond and back.  He crossed that open space which once was called the Guarded Plain, but now lay deserted.  He entered into the ruin of Nargothrond, slew its tiny guardian, and returned whence he came.  He came near to the borders of Doriath, carrying a treasure second only to the unsurpassable jewels of Feanor.  And then, he was surrounded by the march wardens of King Thingol, and they took him before the throne. 

          The court of the King was deep underground in the Thousand Caves.  Húrin bore his captivity patiently, as he was hustled through torch-lit passages.  He had a token and a message for the proud ruler who named himself Master of Beleriand.  At last, he entered that holy place.  For only there, of all the dwellings of men and elves, lived also one of the Maiar.  Those are demigods who were with Ilúvatar in the beginning, before the making of the world.  Their place also is in Valinor, as the helpers of the Valar.  Queen Melian was wise beyond the measure of Elves and Men.

          But it was to Thingol that Húrin must deliver his message.  He sized him up, ancient, with hoary beard.  There was a largeness to him, settled on his throne at the center of the world, that Húrin resented.  He began by tossing a small bundle before the royal dais.  It was wrapped in a rag, and yet it shone out brightly.  For surely, here was the nauglimir, which was the Necklace of the Dwarves.  The court was in wonder.  Hurin’s voice cut across their awe, saying this unwelcoming thing.

          “Here is the fee I pay you for your care and tutelage of my son.  Cheaply do you spend the lives of men, Elven King.  For you sent Beren to his death.”  He pointed to the Jewel of Valinor set in its place by the throne.  “That bauble of Elven craft you carry with you now, does not belong to you.  It was not by the might of Elven warriors that this jewel was recovered, but by the prowess of a mortal Man.”

          “My own son you also sent to his death.  He had wronged a dandy of your court, a musician and poet.  What were his songs next to the strength of Turin Turambar, Master of Fate?  Your Elvish games, your tricks and charms.  Turin also achieved a deed beyond the reach of your Elvish cunning.  He slew the dragon.  You Elves, for all your mastery and skill, would not have withstood that fire.  Is there a mountain to be climbed?  Best call an Elf.  But if there is fire, if there is a grim enemy to be fought, if there is pain and terror; that needs a Man.  You had best take care, Mighty King, unless by sending the sons of Men to fight your battles, you yourself become a coward!”

          “Look at you, safe within a magic realm, protected by the daughter of a god!  You should be fearless, secure in the knowledge that even in death the King of the Valar will catch you in the palm of his hand.  But instead you choose to while away the long years of your immortality in melancholy and malaise.  What you cannot lose; that is what we cannot hope to save.  As to the matter of the fee for your care of my son—is the price fair?  What care did you take of him?  You clothed him and fed him, and cast him into the wilderness!  Here is your fee, Mighty King.” 

          Thingol was wrathful, but Melian stepped forward and spoke a word to him, and he turned away.  She then placed her hands on Hurin’s shoulders; and she began to tell him things in a low whisper.  Her voice was a sonorous hum to the court, for only Hurin heard her words.  Melian told him of the Hope of Middle Earth, in which all the races had a part.  “For in that time shall come forth a male person of both kindreds combined.  He shall be child of the divine, also, through Melian of the Maiar.  And his father will be your godson, Tuor.”

          Hurin thought of his nephew.  He had loved the sea.  Often, he had visited the shores of Nevrast, which of old was the home of Turgon.  It was said that in that land might still be seen the old man of the sea and his lady walking.  Tuor had loved the old stories.  He liked walking by the sea.  And to Hurin, it had seemed there was a resemblance between his nephew and the sea.  Tuor was changeable.  His moods shifted quickly.  He was ill suited to the games of sport that Turin had loved best.  But he was kind, and talked to animals as his father had done.

          Hurin now learned that Tuor would return to the haven of his childhood, as Melian continued,  “He will find his way, in time, to the Western Ocean, over which great sea lies the land of Valinor, which is land in fact, though no boat from Middle Earth may now reach it.  And yet one shall.”  And Hurin began to see her words formed into pictures in his mind.  He saw his godson putting on shining armor by the shore of the ocean.  He saw Ulmo, the sea god, rising up before him on the back of a roaring wave.  He watched him find his way through the mountains, and come to Gondolin. 

          Then, the scene changed, and he saw a vision of a ship in the sky.  Tethered to the prow was a person of great beauty, and a Jewel was bound upon his brow.  He was Earendil the Mariner, and the Jewel was radiant in full light, and it gave back a more beautiful light than the sea at sunset, for in it was the mingled light of the Heavenly Trees, that gave light to the gods in Valinor before moon and sun.  This ship rode against winged dragons over a field of battle.  Awed, Hurin watched the fortress of Angbad fall, and the mountains of Thangorodrim crumble. 

          Hurin was overwhelmed.  The vision which Melian had given him was like the vision of Morgoth in its Power, and it was better. But he felt strangely empty after seeing so much brightness.  He felt blinded, though his ordinary eyes continued to see.  He saw that the court had gone on without him, and Thingol had stepped forward to look at the beautiful Necklace.  Hurin turned away, because his grief was still fresh.  “It may overmaster me,” he thought.  “I can trust it to no one but to the wild.”  For he thought death no bad thing, after all he had been through. 

          Leaving the court, his eyes lingered over the carvings in the cave, lit up with flickering lanterns.  A whole forest was carved into the stone, shown at the height of summer.  It occurred to him that its leaves would never fall. 

          His eyes, which had been burned, had now been healed and cleansed.  But his heart was restless.  As he emerged from the tunnel, he found the natural world was changing.  The leaves had fallen from the trees, and a cold wind was blowing.  Húrin stepped out into the winter, and passed beyond the knowledge of Elves and Men. 

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          Away in the west, a figure is flying over the water.  We see him from a distance.  He is moving quickly.  As we get closer, we notice his winged boots, his red cape—traced with arabesques that tell of the Great War—and his staff of serpents.  This must be Eonwe, herald of Manwe, returning to his Lord over the Western Seas. 

          The waters below him are swirled by the speed of his passage.  There below him are the enchanted isles, which move and change shape, and so cannot be trusted for the needs of mortal navigation. 

          Now he is come into the Shadowy Seas.  But the shadows do not trouble him, as he passes this way often, carrying news of the world to his Master in Valinor. 

          Next, he comes out over Tol Eressea, and below him are the bright islands, and the Teleri at work upon their boats.  One of the islanders looks up and shields his eyes against the sun with a hand.  But Eonwe is soon gone beyond his vision, making for the peak of Taniquetil.

          High above the world stands the mountain of the gods.  It faces eastward, and imposes no limit on the perception of those with all-seeing eyes.  From here, the High King of Arda looks out over the world.  Today, he is standing on a ledge, surrounded by birds on the wing.  It would appear his is talking with the eagles.  Manwe looks up as his herald approaches.

          “What news of the world do you bring?” he asks.  And Eonwe replies, “The passing of Hurin, my Lord.”

          “By what means?”

          “By his own hand.  He drowned himself in the Bay of Balar.”

          Both the mighty Lord and his companion stand for a moment in silence.  Manwe is looking to the East, as if he might be able to see the place Hurin entered the water; or, in any case, the shore from which he took his last steps.

          Then, Manwe spoke again.  “I watched him from afar.  He has suffered greatly.  Often, I wished that I might bring him to the West, so that he could be healed of his sorrow.

          “He would not have come, my Lord,” Eonwe replied.

          As they were speaking, the Sun was descending from the sky, towards its bed in the outer sea.  After a brief rest, it must travel under the world, so that it can rise again on the morrow.  But, for awhile, it will remain in Aman, so that the world can have night. 

          “Perhaps not,” the King said at length, “but I wonder that in the end he chose to throw himself into the Western Ocean.”

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          In Rivendell, also, the sun was going down.  It was the hour for the lighting of lamps.  On these quiet nights, Elrond was accustomed to take his tea and listen to the musicians in the Hall of Fire. 

          As they walked along the grass-lined path, Valandil looked at his companions.  He wondered what strange beings these were, who walked beside him. 

Of course, he had learned the history of Elrond Half-elven at school, but he was struck by his experience of the person himself.  Valandil knew that he had chosen to be counted among the Elves, and had abandoned the mortal race.  Yet, Elrond spoke with such compassion for men. 

And there was also the stranger, who they called Mithrandir.  He appeared to be taking everything in, almost as if he were newborn.  He was engrossed in the story, and nodded his head continually; his eyes flashed, as did a ring he wore on the third finger of his right hand.  When the story came to its conclusion, this red ring shone like fire. 

A child from the house came running to meet them.  She announced, “Hurry, masters, for tonight they are singing the Lay of Leithian.”  At this, Elrond smiled, and he led them into the hall, the music streaming out to meet them.

 

The End

 

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