Who Never Returned by herenortherenearnorfar

Lays

This ended up much longer than intended but I got what I wanted (Morwen rants about her awful cousin who has the nerve to run off and have an epic romance, Húrin makes soothing noises and pretends he isn't just as ridiculous as she is). 

Plague and minor character death warnings.

Read Lays

Songs of Beren the Enchanted reach gentle Rían first, as songs often do. No spy is keener than she is when it comes to uplifting tales.

She tells Húrin as they eat lunch, in between settling property disputes and cattle conundrums. His little cousin in-law has stepped up as a lady during Morwen’s confinement. People love her and she makes that into a sort of diplomacy. Rían is casual with the rumours but clearly excited— all hope kindles joy in these dark times.

Then Húrin has to go out and shake down the peddler telling tales about the outlying homesteads and demand the full story. It’s an onerous task that bears little fruit. The only concrete information the old woman has, from an elven friend of the woods, is that Thingol’s daughter has taken up with a man of Bëor‘s line. Beren, son of Barahir, a lost child of Dorthonion found in Doriath’s winding embrace.

Rían believes it, for she has a cousin Beren long ago, but Húrin assumes it’s just chatter. Perhaps Melian’s daughter has taken a human lover but he cannot be a man killed by orcs long ago.

He does not talk about it with his wife. He can tell she already knows, by the press of her lips and the way she holds their dark haired child close. It does no good to dredge up old memories.

The stories do not stop.

Next time they hear of Beren is a year and a half later. Now the story (from the south and Nargothrond) says that Lúthien, Melian’s child, has torn down Gorthaur’s lair and stolen her lover from his claws. King Finrod is dead as well, they whisper, killed on a quest for an impossible bride-price. 

It’s the first time the word Silmaril is said in conjunction with Beren’s name. 

Morwen scowls and tries to have the storytellers thrown from their home, openly disregarding her duty to travellers in a rage Húrin has rarely known from her. It doesn’t take much to soothe her temper, she knows responsibility as well as he does. Word of the incident must spread because after that few people dare speak of Beren to the lady of Dor-lómin’s face. 

Wild stories still abound, and Rían, who so obviously wishes for another member of her family to have survived, drinks them all in. 

When the most astounding of the rumors arrive, there is no longer any doubt that something is brewing. Nargothrond has never had open doors, but it has traditionally conducted trade from behind a screen of plausible deniability. Now the city is shuttered and its people are unresponsive. Doriath shrieks in the night, Haleth’s people in Brethil keep sending word (through the medium of Húrin’s mother, who dwells there to help her brother who is not well suited to greater politics) of strange beasts, silent birds, and wild magic. The trees and beasts are unsettled, the orcs are less bold, and the humans Húrin rules are beginning to feel something close to hope. 

That they think this series of disasters bodes well for them is optimistic in the extreme. Still, Húrin can’t help sharing their dreams and wishes. What inconveniences the Enemy must have some benefit for them. Even if Lúthien has run away with a corpse, her love affair seems to be doing a number on Morgoth’s servants. 

Lady Emeldir dies, and the mourning period, along with Urwen’s birth, keep any stories of Doriath’s wayward daughter from their door.

He is sitting with his wife, watching their newborn daughter suckle in her sleep, when the messenger bursts in. 

“A Silmaril!” he cries, falling to his knees. “They’ve stolen a Silmaril!”

They have the whole tale out in pieces. There was a great stirring from Angband weeks ago, a light on Morgoth’s doorstep and a cry like there was when the spider asked for supper. Lúthien and Beren were spotted running across the empty plain of Anfauglith. Lúthien and Beren were seen being snatched up by eagles (ah, what a blessing, the keen eyes of elves). Carcharoth has been rampaging south through the ruins of Dorthonion and the waste of Nan Dungortheb towards the river Esgalduin, a light shining from its belly. Angband has been shaking and fire has rolling down the peaks of Thangorodrim.

The pieces are near impossible to piece together, so King Fingon has been holding back the news until he had confirmation of the key element. Now, it seems, he has intelligence that yes, a Silmaril was taken from Morgoth’s own palace.

Túrin has woken from his nap to join them and sits wonderstruck by the news. Húrin feels awed himself. What has been done here is nothing short of miraculous. 

His wife is rocking their daughter like it’s the end of the world. Húrin takes the messenger away to debrief further, and, because he sees the ache in Morwen’s eyes, doesn’t let Rían or Huor follow. 

This is not a rumor to be drunk over, or an unsettling development in the sociopolitical landscape that must be noted and not directly confronted. This shift in the status quo demands action. 

Húrin rides to his king’s side, and is there as the pieces of a plan begin to come together. Because he has two very small children, he is allowed to leave. Diplomacy is happening at a slow and crushing pace in the High King’s Court. In its wake the world might be changed again.

It is Rían who learns what happened after the Silmaril was snatched from the tyrant’s grasp. Rían loves stories, though this one, sad as it is, is not to her taste. 

Almost immediately, she tells Huor, anything she knows he knows as well (they may have to move up those marriage plans if the two are so close. Staying in the same household bears risks enough, if Huor starts living out of his sweetheart’s skirt pockets there will be a baby before the bride prices can be mustered and liege lords consulted). 

Huor sorrowfully relates the fourth-hand woe to Húrin. It is said that Beren Erchamion (a new name for a mythic man) was buried in autumn after wresting the Silmaril from the great wolf’s gullet. His lover died yearning for him. No one was even sure the Lady Lúthien could die– not the way elves and men do. Her life was one of many firsts. 

When he asks if they’ve told Morwen yet, Huor shakes his head. 

“You know she hates to hear what has become of her cousin. Rían didn’t want to bring it up.”

True as that is, Húrin also knows that Morwen dislikes being spoken over and dismissed. The latest bittersweet news has no doubt already reached her ears; she is keen as a knife, his wife, and loathes ignorance. Not telling her is still unacceptable. 

He braces himself and broaches the subject in the evening, when their younger family members are all in bed. 

“I had heard,” Morwen says simply. Leaving it at that is the easiest thing Húrin has ever done. 

The stories only grow. There is a new clarity to the Lay of Lúthien and Beren. Details once obscured by rumor and misdirection have emerged. All the singers and wandering folk (few as they are in this time of strife) settle by consensus on a single narrative with threads and themes depending on the teller. With the lovers dead there is no one to contradict what is said around fires and banquet tables. Doriath is sunk in grief and jewel-light, Nargothrond is barely responsive. Húrin’s people talk of night-black cloaks, dramatic confessions of love, nightingales garlanding a woodland bower. Morwen’s people try to ascertain how their young lord found himself alone in Melian’s woods– soothe themselves with tales of valor and entire camps of orcs slaughtered, of songbirds leading an injured warrior into the safety of the forest. 

Dor-lómin’s lady says nothing. Through a series of cold glares and subtle expressions, she makes it clear that stories of her cousin’s romance aren’t welcome in her hall. Everyone thinks she is distraught, that she can’t stand the fact that she’s lost another family member. Even Rían seems to believe it and comforts her with silly songs and anemone. 

Only Húrin, who comforted her when her aunt passed, who knows what Morwen’s silent rage looks like, suspects otherwise. 

Not that it matters. They are busy, with two children to run after, a newly engaged couple to chaperone (having a betrothed pair under one roof is a recipe for disaster but Rían’s sickly mother says the dowry will not be ready for a while yet) and a fief to rule. In his wisdom, Húrin decides not to confront Morwen on this topic. 

And the years pass. 

In the autumn sickness comes with the cold wind. It leaves the afflicted’s lungs crackling like brown leaves. The weak fall first, and Húrin is glad that Morwen’s mother died on the long march away from Dorthonion, that his own mother lives far away. Rían’s mother and the few elderly servants are locked down in one room, to minimize risks. Rían herself is asked to take the children and keep them out from underfoot, for children seem to be especially badly effected. Then Morwen goes about healing who she can.

They believe, for a while, that it is like any other illness. That it can be spread from man to man by water, breath, or touch. By the time that they realize the fell miasma emanates from elsewhere, it is already too late. 

Rían’s mother sickens and dies, and Húrin mourns her dearly, for the lady had become a part of his household and his life since his marriage. Her daughter keeps up a brave face and keeps helping, until Húrin takes her aside and gives her permission to grieve. Even then she sheds few tears and seems more confused than anything. For someone who has known such death, Rían does not handle it very well. 

The children, at least, have been orderly, Húrin thinks. Wearing his mother’s stubborness like a cloak, Túrin has been helping the servants with small chores, making himself useful where he can. Lalaith, though only 3, seems to know that her laughter must be contained. 

It’s the lack of laughter that first tells him something is wrong. Instead of giggling, she gasps for breath, and her skin is so hot.

Eventually, the sickness passes. They bury their daughter, and Rían’s mother, and two dozen others. 

The first travellers after the evil disperses arrive in Dor-lómin with secretive smiles. They have seen much death, they agree, when they are scolded for their disposition, but they have news as well– news of such joy!

This times Húrin does not hear the story from Rían (she is still in her own little world of flowers and sadness; Huor walking with her in the meadows of yellow grass). The elf traveler brings it to him directly, saying that it only right that Beren’s kin should know of Beren’s rising. Actually, he wishes to speak with Morwen, who elves respect for she is harsh and lovely, but Húrin intercepts him. 

“This has only just come out from Doriath, by way of the Green Elves,” his teacher intimates, before telling him about souls stolen back from Mandos, about a resurrection so miraculous it shook Menegroth, about a couple entwined in mortality dwelling in a little house in the far southeast. 

It sounds like nonsense. Half of what has been said about Beren and Lúthien sounds like nonsense, sounds like the wildest wishes of poets slammed together with an incoherent dream. And yet so much of it is now backed up by evidence. 

“Are you sure?” Húrin asks. 

The elf, who does wear the light, leaf stitched garb of Ossiriand, nods. “I have it from a very reliable source, and…”

“And?”

“On my way north I ventured up the Andurant and passed the island where they dwell. I did not make a nuisance of myself, for I imagine they have much to catch up on, but the land bloomed with life and I saw so very many nightingales.” 

A gasp catches in Húrin’s mouth, to be let out as a long sigh. “I see. Thank you, for the news. I will make sure it finds my wife.”

 

“I do not wish to hear of it.” 

As little as Húrin wishes to cause conflict in his own home, this has gone on long enough. Morwen hides her hurts behind a thousand layers of pride and frustration. None of her thorny derision helps the wounds that lie beneath. If they are married, and they are, then its his duty to comfort her– even when she is unpleasant to comfort. 

When Lalaith died, Morwen held him for hours as he sat, horror-stricken and silent. She told Túrin when he could not, washed and dressed the little body he could not stand to look at. If this matter has worked under her skin then he must pull out the splinter and dress the wound. 

Knowing it must be done doesn’t make it easy. Neither of them are much for gentle words. 

“Beloved, what has your cousin done to earn your ire? Surely the people need stories like this, in times like these.”

Morwen sneers at him. It’s a good sneer, asymmetric and quelling. She’s had a lot of practice. “Stories of what? Betrayal and unfilial sons? Of bewitchment and lives thrown away for baubles?”

“Of happy endings.” Húrin reminds her. Now that Lúthien and Beren are no longer a tragedy, morale will improve greatly. With the brewing Union, a boost in overall enthusiasm is useful. Returning from the dead is unlikely to be a repeat event, but if men and elves believe it is possible to win and live afterwards…

It has been so long since they’ve had such an unambiguous victory.

“How is it a happy ending?” Morwen demands, falling back on her old strategy of questions as deflection. “Thingol still mourns, I’ve heard. Why wouldn’t he, when his immortal daughter has chosen to leave forever?  Finrod Felagund is dead. Huan the Hound is dead. Two of Fëanor’s offspring have shown their true colors.”

“Sauron defeated, Carcharoth destroyed, a Silmaril stolen from Morgoth’s very crown,” Húrin lists the victories won slowly, watching his wife for any reaction.

“Two dogs put down and a trinket pickpocketed.” Oh, there is a joy to watching Morwen tear other people apart. He could admire her unkindness all evening.

He reaches over and takes her in his arms, and at the familiar action she relaxes a little. “Darling, tell me truly; why do you hate Beren Ercharmion? It’s starting to frighten other people.” Rían will pick up on it eventually and then she will be abuzz with worry for her poor older cousin who cannot stand gaiety. 

With a pivot, Morwen puts the two of them face to face and looks into his eyes with her dark grey ones. Does she look like Beren, who Lúthien loves? A man who won an elf maiden’s affection must be fair enough by elven standards. They call her Elfsheen for a reason.

“He didn’t come back,” she says frostily. “He was alive, he is alive, and he hasn’t come back. His mother died wondering if her son was out there, and he could not be bothered to visit .”

That sounds like exactly the sort of half-reasonable, half-ridiculous quibble Morwen would have with a man already mostly myth. She’s right of course, that duty to ones family is important, but at the same time there are extenuating circumstances. 

“He was dead for the last few years,” Húrin points out. 

Her eyes narrow with rage. “That’s no excuse especially since he’s alive now.”

“He had a quest.” Húrin isn’t especially invested in defending Beren. Someone ought to speak for the dead though (even when they’ve come back to life). “And we don’t know what bounds the Valar placed upon him.”

Now that the story is out in the wild, Húrin has heard half a dozen variations of it. Given the slightest information, people extrapolate enthusiastically Some theorize that, without bodies, the pair must be more wraiths than men. Others say they are human now, but god-touched, and must dwell far in the East for the safety of others. 

“I don’t care what Dooms Mandos lays, or what demands King Thingol made. We thought he was dead twice and he didn’t have the decency to come and tell us otherwise.” With the source of her grudge aired out, the intensity of her anger is slowly dying down. It’s always better to speak of such matters with your spouse.

He stands on tiptoes to kiss her forehead, for they are almost exactly of a height. “I know, I know. But you cannot expect propriety from those we tell stories about. Their fate will always be strange, and their actions may seem irrational when viewed from afar.”

Morwen scoffs. “He’s not an elf, we can have some standards for him.”

“An elf by marriage, an elf by association, an elf by birth. A human with less sense than you. You must let others fall short of your expectations, beloved.”

“I do not think I will be able to forgive him.”

“You don’t have to.” Húrin isn’t sure how to say, He’s not a real person anymore , without seeming ridiculous, so he settles for, “He’s not here. He’s just a story. Let him bring joy to those who don’t remember Beren son of Barahir.”

A cry rips its way out of her throat. “He could have told me what happened to my father!”

“I know, I know.” He rocks gently, like they did when the children were babies, and hopes it doesn’t come off as too condescending. “Look to the benefits, this way you’re never going to have to interact with his in-laws in Doriath.”

His wife shoves him, but her eyes are smiling. “What would I do without you?”

Húrin grins, more openly and with far brighter joy. “We would both harbor so many more grudges.”