The Eyes and Ears of Morgoth by Chilled in Hithlum

It has been told elsewhere that Húrin Thalion, Son of Galdor, Lord of Dor-lómin was brought chained before Melkor-Morgoth after his bold stand against the forces of Angband in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears; and undaunted, he brazenly defied the tyrant of the northlands. Nevertheless he underwent much labour and torment but he still wouldn’t divulge aught that he knew of Turgon, the elven King of Gondolin; such was the supremacy of the oath between them. Accordingly Húrin found himself straitened thus; for ere Morgoth had spoke his doom, he restrained the ‘Last Lord of Dor-lómin’ in a stone seat and set it upon the highest peak of Thangorodrim facing south towards his homeland afar off. 

So, what then of this seat and the inherent power it conveyed? 

Húrin became aware of its existence three days ago having been brought to its place within Morgoth’s chamber; he had only been summoned there one other time and hadn’t noticed it then. It stood fixed atop a stepped circular dais, all burnished black; adjacent to but set back from the ‘Throne of Melkor,’ so it always remained in shadow. Húrin noticed how slender it seemed at its master’s right hand side, almost elegant with discernable shapes of arms and legs cut into it; graven runes in devious speech run all about it while the back support was crowned with carved forms of cruel looking beasts. 

“Let the dog have its reward, let it rest on the big chair!" said Morgoth, as Húrin was hauled before him. A company of orcs set about removing his chains and fetters as the captive looked upon the king before him, fixing upon the two gems in his Iron Crown; how brilliantly the Silmarils had shone in the free air only a short time ago at the mound of the Slain (Haudh-en-Ndengin) but now they dimmed, as if mourning in this subterranean prison. Presently another light appeared from behind Morgoth’s throne, not white but fiery red and growing brighter; at length all heard the unmistakable growl of a Balrog approaching and the orcs flinched and scattered. For some thirty seconds Húrin stood free wondering if he should dare to dash. 

Morgoth laughed knowing his mind, "Do not seek to run, Hound Húrin, you already know Gothmog's whip: one crack in the right place should break your legs and we’d need to put you down; now we wouldn’t want that, would we?" 

Knowing at once it was a hopeless chance Húrin turned towards the vacant chair: "Good boy: Sit!" sneered Morgoth. It was surprisingly comfortable. 

Morgoth intoned a song of power in a tongue that Húrin knew not: ever steadily, ever louder and ever deeper his voice grew, and Húrin fancied that he heard trumpets braying repeatedly in support of that dark enchanted mantra. The graven runes upon the chair illumined a sickly pale light and Húrin’s limbs became as lead. Morgoth ended his song and the binding-spell was complete. Húrin realised at last that he was wholly under the power of the ‘Black Foe of the World’ and he would have wept but could not, for shame. Looking thoughtfully upon that chair Morgoth's eyes flashed, his face full of disappointment recalling some former wrath; he turned away sharply looking down. The Balrog knew well his master’s mood, he back-stepped a few paces and straightened up in readiness for orders; however no command came save for the listless wave of Morgoth’s backhand bidding his lieutenant to leave them. 

Without warning the Dark Lord took up his mighty war hammer, Grond, and cleverly smote it about the black chair; his long arm reached over Hurin's head and wrenched the seat away from its platform. Ever after that day the stand appeared as though a ravened beast had bitten out a chunk from it; for even so it had. Now Morgoth with chair (and Húrin) in hand limped out from his hall. Afore-time at the hill of the slain he was loath to prove his disability to Húrin, but now he was undeterred. His uneven footfalls resounded through all Angband and many quailed in the light of Morgoth's scarred countenance. The swinging of his mighty arms nauseated Húrin, who lost all sense of bearing as they passed through many rocky walkways; coming at length to the pits where he’d recently toiled, the slave drivers ceased momentarily but their lord passed them by, ignoring too the Troll-Guards at the mine’s northern entrance. The brazen gates to the southwest where Fingolfin had fought were now many leagues behind them. 

Few whom ever entered Angband in thraldom saw the desolate scene ahead of Húrin, for Morgoth made a point of cradling the chair to his bosom saying, “Welcome to your new home!” He stepped out onto a steep ledge enclosing a gaping volcanic crater, undulating and hissing violently below; whereat the man of Dor-lómin endured many burns as cinders and hot smoke swished erratically about his face. Directly ahead stood the three mounds of Morgoth’s delving; so tightly packed were these that they formed thunderous towers that acted as funnels for the crater, and so vast were they that even those from the outer lands could easily descry them: this was Thangorodrim! Hurin’s spirit almost failed him as the Fallen Vala deftly negotiated the broken way ahead, finally springing high upon the base of the central pillar of slag with his limbs splayed. The black chair’s left-hand side butted against the conical wall; its occupant briefly caught sight of the immense armouries beyond the ash clouds ere his carrier moved again. Around and around spiralled Morgoth; up the tower he ran as rapidly would a lizard. Towards the top the air cleared but the heat from the furnaces below was steady. At more than three quarters of the way up Morgoth stopped; and hanging from one arm he surveyed the southern vista, musing and grunting in his own assent. On an instant he swung up his dangling free arm and smashed the back of the chair into the compressed peak with the remains of the dais serving as an effective piton holding it in place. The impact would have sent Húrin hurtling to his death but the binding-spell was too strong. 

Indeed, Morgoth wondered if he’d overreached his aim as Húrin collapsed, being heavily concussed from the force of the collision; he seemed lifeless but not so, for breath soon returned to his lungs. At length his eyes flickered open and a blurred black shape against the daylight came slowly into focus, revealing the grinning head of his captor standing a way off; this disoriented him further. He’d been passed out for three days, during which period the Lord of Angband had caused a great scaffold to be erected, incorporating a mechanical platform for elevation and transport to that height. 

“He stirs!” says Morgoth sardonically, and while Húrin tries and fails to move his limbs as the realisation of his predicament comes flooding back; Morgoth continues, “Hmm, I fear that will take some adjustment for you but so be it! Does your head hurt?” 

Húrin doesn’t reply! 

“No matter, I perceive that the chair still holds its potency and I know beyond doubt that my words work, therefore your head does not hurt: you’re welcome!” 

“Then why do you ask?” demands Húrin. 

“Ah, he speaks too: so no damage done!” quips Morgoth in return. Húrin looks askance at him unable to hide his contempt; and as Morgoth scowls in return the scars on his face wrinkle in their furrows, despite himself he discharges a perceptible grunt; Húrin smirks. 

Morgoth collects himself, “You think you have nothing left to lose, don’t you?” says he. 

“Only my life!” insists Húrin. 

“Nay Mortal,” says Morgoth, “We have much to share together you and me…” and ere he leaves for a time he adds: *"Sit now there and look out upon the lands where evil and despair shall come upon those whom you have delivered to me. For you have dared to mock me, and have questioned the power of Melkor, Master of the fates of Arda. Therefore with my eyes you shall see, and with my ears you shall hear, and nothing shall be hidden from you." 

Long did Húrin remember these parting words of Morgoth and he wondered much at them, fearing what may soon come to pass. But the days drew on without incident and the monotony of his existence soon became apparent to him. The runes upon the chair constantly shone pale, the indicator that the binding-spell continued its evil work; and it came to pass that for ten minutes each day the runes on the right arm of the chair would dim down, signifying that the time had come to eat, and his right arm would loosen. Ever promptly a carrion bird dropped a roughly stitched cloth bag, stained and dripping, into his lap; being stuffed with leftovers and slops. And such was the spell’s function that as the runes began to re-illumine Húrin’s free arm was pulled in stages involuntarily back to its former place; hence whatsoever he could not consume would be taken away and the bag would return the next day, and so on. Now, it is well established by all speaking folk (whether wicked or true) that orcs revel in their excrement; however, men cannot abide filth for long: So it happened that twice weekly certain orc children would delight in their task of drenching Húrin with buckets of freezing, yet unsullied water; however, they weren’t allowed to use the platform devised by Morgoth but rather they scaled the scaffolding, clambering like chattering goblins upon divers planks set about the stone seat to reach their mark. 

This too also became apparent over time: For as long as the runes were lit Húrin was protected from all sickness and disease, however he was not exempted from the effects of aging; since that isn’t in the province of Morgoth to hinder. Still, this protection didn’t keep him from the frostiness or swelter of the changing seasons; neither did it dull his senses nor calm his mind and he was subject to every assault upon them from the machine of brutality below. He suffered every stench of death, every scream of anguish and every tang of sulphurous metal; all he could touch was that blasted stone chair, all he could see was his distant homelands and all he could feel was a growing longing for his loved ones; his thoughts lead to anger, his plans fell into futility and his hopes turned to rust: and especially, he feared the night. 

On a day well into autumn there came a bitter wind spiralling about the central cone of Thangorodrim, it was entirely localised and not unlike the Evil Breath that Morgoth had sent to Dor-lómin; the same being that which had robbed Húrin of his infant daughter some four years ago. As that malicious torrent whipped about him, Húrin remembered Urwen, also called Lalaith, being only three years old; whereupon bitter tears were unloosed at last. Now Morgoth had sent up many spies to witness this event for he wanted to gauge if Húrin delivered the desired reaction, and upon hearing their reports he was glad; and so it happened in after years that on that same day (commemorating the first pestilence on Dor-lómin) he contrived similar gusts to torment Húrin; little knowing that the recall of his little girl’s laughter brought much comfort in the lonely years ahead. But for now, in his newly stoked grief, Húrin remembered his proud and beautiful wife, Morwen; knowing not yet that she would soon bear him another daughter. He proudly evoked the figure of his compassionate firstborn and only son, Túrin; and Huor too, his valiant and well beloved brother, whom he would race with at Túrin’s age. And he wept: seeing again how Morwen had flourished when after a year away he returned to his father’s house; he pictured their lives together, their children and their unfulfilled plans; and he brought to mind the recent wedding day of Huor and Rían, Morwen’s delicate cousin, who had far less time together than they did; and his heart swelled at the vision of the banners of the Noldor ere the fateful battle, but it sunk again seeing the arrow that pierced his brother's eye, and he mourned also for his fallen brethren at arms. Then at last Húrin laughed amid the tempest, remembering Turgon's escape and how that one eventuality marred Morgoth's victory at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad; but alas his ongoing predicament tormented his soul, and hitherto with the stretching out of time (and with all that was to follow) any hatred he had for his captor would only ever intensify the more.

Chapter End Notes

* quoted from The Silmarillion/Children of Húrin.

When Húrin completed the eighth week of his indefinite sentence on high Thangorodrim, it happened that he was visited again; his oppressor’s advance being proclaimed by the violent clatter of chains pulled by scores of trolls, whom of course operated their lord’s lifting apparatus. The clamour soon took on an inexorable rhythm suggesting to the ear that whatever was to come approached quickly, evenly and steadily, as it so proved to be; for ere long the massive bulk of Morgoth rose majestically to the point of intention. His hideous appearance belied the searching splendour of his eyes, the beauty of which he too often shielded as he leant in to speak, lowering them beneath his prominent brow and the base of his Iron Crown, in truth he rarely conversed; therefore as he arrived full-faced, with the gems exulting once more, he overwhelmed Húrin’s gaze. Indeed previously, Morgoth had noted the increased potency of the Silmarils when he came thither some two months ago and dismissed this as the effect of clear skies in late summer; but within him he knew that these jewels existed before his rival, Arien, blazed across the sky; and he knew also that his ‘flawless brother and lofty spouse’ operated in the high places of Eä. He wilfully ignored the obvious too, that although ‘that marrer of his work: Yavanna!’ manifested the captive light in his crown, it only came into being by means of the concourse of all his brethren, all save for him; and while he often laughed that he denied them this light, it never chanced to his thought that he could be clinging to the last part of himself that is as they are; that same part which he was designed for, to lead his kindred to greater glory. These thoughts disquieted him and delayed his return, for he was angry that he hadn’t considered this in his revenge against Húrin; but now, with pride overruling his true magnificence, he was back! 

Without a word Morgoth stoops down to collect two large brazen rods, both are curved with an ornately honed iron claw at each end; he wags his right-hand index finger as Húrin gasps, and with an ironic he slowly shakes his head, cheerfully saying: “There are many of mine underneath us who would happily tear you to shreds, I need no device for that!” 

The Dark Lord sets about attaching the rods to the arms of the chair, arranging them thus: the rods projected away from the chair and the splayed ends faced inward with a twelve inch gap between them; and so it was in Húrin’s direct eye-line, roughly three feet away, there were two vicious claws grasping at nothingness. Rising again to his full stature, Morgoth seems pleased with himself, as a carpenter fitting a tricky joint, saying: “I made this for you, do you like it?” He waits expectantly for a reply that never comes; Húrin wonders much at this, after all what is he supposed to say? At length Morgoth shrugs and says “No matter: Ere we enjoy our plaything let me impart to you some Elven-lore of my own!” He clears his throat for effect and begins, “Long years ago when I was in Valinor there was a despicable elf name Fëanor, he was quite good at gem-craft,” Morgoth taps his crown, “…and he discovered the art of producing seeing-stones; and as much as I tried to cozen him into revealing his proficiency in their making, he would not shift on the matter. I could not move against him openly as yet, for my plans were unripe. On a time it chanced that he was away hunting, so I stole a stone from his workshop and discovered its essence; thus I replaced it before his return, and he gave no outward sign that he knew aught of my crime. I was now eager to return to Angband, for I knew of an ore in my mines that I hoped would prove appropriate as a substitute to produce my own seeing-stones. My analysis did not take long, for this mineral is more conducive to my needs by far and I have it in abundance; for so it is, I can now see and hear, all the doings of my captains. This is how I gave the command not to kill you! Soon you too will learn the power of my Orbs and THOU WILT RESPECT MY SKILL!” 

Húrin holds his peace and adopts a fixed forward looking gaze throughout; thus the Dark Lord crouches again, this time to look him in the eye and smiling, almost fondly, he says: “Thou art no craven, I know it!” 

With that Morgoth reaches into his robes and plucks out, between two fingers and a thumb, a black sphere which he then inspects; and ever so gently, he places the globe between the claws of the device he had just erected and steps back. To Húrin’s eyes ‘The Orb of Morgoth’ (as he would henceforth refer to these objects) appeared as polished obsidian, but inwardly there were twirling constellations of flecked gold which moved and danced as would a living flame; and for the longest time this new thing absorbs him totally. At length there come sounds from places other than where he now sits, for sound always comes first: he hears many feet stamping across rough ground; and unexpectedly a thin horizontal band of light appears in the Orb which bleeds gradually outwards, the shape of grasping fingers comes into view which snap up suddenly, but not disappearing, and in one dizzying motion the face of an orc appears saying, “Nothing to report, Sir!” The scene changes: Húrin sees wolf-forms patrolling around a figure frantically trying to rebuild a tower with Elven foundations. The images speed up: he hears screams, laughter and unfinished phrases from many mouths; he sees a fiery whip crack down upon a thrall; faces, limbs and eyes all blur together; then abruptly, everything stops! “Distressing at first, is it not?” says Morgoth, with the Orb back between his fingers; Húrin gasps uncontrollably as he calls a halt to the lesson, “But with practice, you will learn control!” 

The next day Morgoth came, and the day after and beyond many others he persisted; Húrin lost count of the times he was forced to look into that dreaded Orb before ending up in a drenching sweat. Until there came a morning of winter, harsh and cold; whereon Húrin gazed into the gap beyond the iron claws into the chasm of his own thought. He was young again; and he was panting, ahead of him his lean younger brother sprinted on. Huor laughed as he came to a running stop, and Húrin catching him up said, ‘We’ll have a longer race next time!’ and he thought to himself with longing, ‘We loved adventures and were seldom parted.’ Húrin conjured the mighty Eagles and he re-enacted how Thorondor might have marred Morgoth’s face. He saw bold King Fingon ready for battle, and the raven-haired Meaglin watching his every move in Gondolin. His contemplation was broken by a familiar voice: “It is time!” said Morgoth with Orb in hand; Húrin shuddered at the sight of him because he didn’t even notice his usual noisy approach. 

“Daydreaming were we?” quipped Morgoth, as he dropped the Orb between the claws. 

At length, Húrin hears a gravely voice: “Look! There’s a dead woman!” 

Behold: The ghastly vision of the Haudh-en-Ndengin, but now far more rotten than the preceding time Húrin and Morgoth saw it together; the corpses of Angband’s enemies were largely discernable by their attire, otherwise the mound housed bones and putrefied flesh; and multitudes of flies, for even the carrion beasts had taken their fill. 

“Where?” demands the other orc holding the Orb, in a deeper and more guttural tone. 

“Down there, she’s still fresh; are you blind?” snaps the first. 

In abject horror, Húrin sees the motionless and still beautiful form of Rían lying atop the decomposition, her hair covers one in the livery of Dor-lómin; He forcibly shouts “No!” and immediately the vision ceases. 

Morgoth claps his hands slowly, but not in mockery for he was pleased, saying; “You wanted the vision to stop, so you willed it to end, it’s that simple!” 

“Simple?” shouts Húrin with tears stinging his eyes “My brother’s dead wife lays rotting on your stinking mound!” 

Morgoth remains impassive, “Your brother’s wife, oh!” he says, “I just had her followed after she was spotted rambling and delirious; and lo, she ended up there! So, your brother, is he… you know?” 

“Yes, your arrows claimed him!” spits Húrin. 

“Pity: Perhaps he may have been more cooperative,” muses Morgoth, “There were only two of you that returned to your father’s house after so long away; am I not right?” 

Húrin spits pathetically in contempt of those words. 

Morgoth laughs: “Come on now we’re missing the point of the lesson!” he says, “Do you not see; it took such a shock as this to break you free from your cycle of failure!” 

“Then you lied!” barks Húrin, “You knew of Rían’s fate ahead of time and showed me this to prove your point?” 

“It’s true!” said Morgoth “But was I not right?” 

Húrin remembers hearing the news of Rían’s pregnancy on the day he and his brother departed for battle, he hopes that she didn’t miscarry as he scrambles to work out the timing of when she was due; however he quickly deflects from this thought lest Morgoth should find him out, presently he says: “Oh, there is much about you that is not right, Morgoth Bauglir; but answer this, did you kill her just to illustrate this so-called lesson?” 

Morgoth answers truthfully: “Not so, as I understand that the pruned little flower wilted in Mithrim when your brother returned not. My Easterlings reported that she bore him a babe, whom it seems she abandoned; and then in despair she volunteered herself to the mound. The mite hasn’t turned up yet; so apparently you’re an uncle!” 

“Easterlings!” gasps Húrin in horror. 

“Yes, yes: Easterlings!” rejoins Morgoth impatiently, “You dismiss my teaching far too rashly, there is much you can learn from me if you are willing; but either way the lesson will be taught! But for now I’m weary of you and a few days rest are in order I think!” 

And so with the passing of the first year of his incarceration, Húrin indeed learnt much from Morgoth; he mastered the Orb, choosing what to see and what to hear and from which source, for indeed nothing was hidden from him. His hopes were dashed in that he learnt nothing directly of his kin for himself; rather rumours and reports came to him through Morgoth, nonetheless many later proved to be true. He heard of the departure of Túrin from Dor-lómin and thought it over late as he had formerly feared in talks with his wife; and he despaired too that Morwen went not with their son but rather remained in their home to give birth to his third child. Morgoth often cursed the ineptitude of Lorgan and all the Easterlings, and for his part he offered Húrin the option to have a troop of orcs posted in Dor-lómin so that he might watch Morwen from afar; but Húrin declined, since he didn’t want his wife constantly spied upon and in no way did he trust Morgoth. In after days Húrin deliberated over this offer and wondered if he hadn’t let his hate overrule his desire; for it seemed to be presented in an unfeigned and unconditional manner, and his refusal of it was met with forthright acceptance with no offence taken. 

Morgoth also learnt much: he realised that he had previously underestimated the minds of men, particularly the Edain, finding that he preferred them to elves; but most strange to him, he discovered a secret enjoyment of teaching. He took to calling Húrin by his name, and he even tolerated his slight remarks as would an elder with a mischievous adolescent. However, never at any time during his confinement did he decree that Húrin’s conditions should be improved; and always did Morgoth consider his fealty to Turgon which always made him restless in mind. In those days he sat alone in dark thought as he had often done before; this time he had been appraising his victories, in particular the unleashing of the dragon in the Glorious Battle of Sudden Flame. Turgon’s absence in that great onslaught gnawed at him and he knew in his heart that this was significant. 

“What was Turgon doing at that time?” he repeatedly asked himself; presently his eyes lit on the Great Orb mounted by his throne, he laughed; “Ha! I am looking at this from the wrong direction!” 

He summoned his record keeper and demanded all the logbooks from the time of the Dagor Bragollach until the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Every report and update, no matter how futile, had been recorded by Morgoth’s administration ever since his return from Valinor; now he felt sure that these pages would yield something useful. “Search for anything out of the ordinary!” he commanded; and for five hours he listened as they droned aloud any log they thought might aid their lord, they went in this fashion: 

“Dorthonion: Phantoms witnessed in black trees!” 

“Brethil: Enemy pursued (suspected youths) but lost in mist at the ford!” 

“Southern Falas: Unknown ships spotted sailing west from Isle of Balar!” 

Suddenly Morgoth shouted “Stop! The ships that’s it!” and to himself he said, “So Turgon you seek to unseat me by going the long way around, thou craven, at least your father and brother dared to face me and mine in battle, and you will fail as did they”. 

Morgoth turned again to his record keeper and demanded that every log concerning the elves of the coast be presented to him in writing without delay, and even so it was done. The next day Morgoth sat poring over the hastily prepared document, and a picture as yet unanticipated grew in his mind. In essence he rued his lack of sea faring capability and cursed Ulmo, ever his foe; but he also began to understand the prominence of Cirdan the builder of ships and he guessed near at the subtle alliances between him and the other Elven Lords. He noted how folk from seemingly unconnected houses and regions would congregate at the coast (especially in the vicinity of the Havens at Brithombar and Eglarest) whenever his forces made life difficult for them; therefore he ultimately resolved to end this conduit to the West, and halt too their disruptive coastal landings against him. 

Morgoth makes ready his plans and visits his captive again: “The day has come, Húrin!” he says cheerfully, “I finally have something to show you that I can be proud of, shall we see it together?” He positions Húrin’s Orb and with an outstretched arm produces another more than ten times the size of Húrin’s, then licking his lips he says: “Live sport is so much better on a bigger screen!” Presently, Húrin jolts upon hearing the dread voice of Gothmog answering his master’s transmitted call; Morgoth misreads this response and gloats: “Yes, my larger Orbs have the capacity to work both ways; it pleases me Húrin, that you are finally impressed by my skill, but this isn’t even the beginning of it: Watch!” 

Morgoth turns his attention to the Orb again saying “High-Captain Gothmog, we have a guest for today’s entertainment, therefore for his profit we require an appraisal of our status thus far!” Húrin flinches at how the Balrog’s head appears almost larger then life-size before his eyes; “My Lord” begins Gothmog, looking askance at Húrin, “The gear has moved through the mountains of Hithlum and Nevrast…” 

Morgoth interrupts impatiently “Yes, Yes that was days ago, I meant today, Oaf, what is happening now?” Húrin’s thoughts turn immediately to his wife in Dor-Lómin, for that place lies between the regions identified by Gothmog; and here he regrets not taking the offer permitting him to look upon his homeland. 

“My Lord!” resumes Gothmog, unable to hide in his countenance any contempt for Húrin: “As we speak our strength advances freely along the rivers Brithon and Nenning and shall reach ‘The Havens’ directly. I have already posted Orb Officers at strategic vantage points ahead of our forces so that you may view all the proceedings; thus I await further commands!” 

“Very good, carry on!” says Morgoth, and ere the image on the Orb diminishes he puts in, “Oh, and Gothmog, don’t you ever again dare to be ill-mannered to anybody whom I name as guest: UNDERSTAND!” The confused Balrog nods curtly just as his face fades from view. Now returning his gaze Morgoth says, “I note you have been newly cleaned; have you yet eaten, Húrin?” Thus as the supposed guest responds in the affirmative the mock host produces a freshly hewn troll leg, sopping and raw, and devours it; and still chewing with blood stained lips, Morgoth mutters sloppily “Let’s have some sport!” 

Húrin tries to divert his gaze as a series of wicked events play out before him, however the amplification from the master Orb is too strong and even the runes in the chair glow white; thus becoming ever the more motionless he tries to glimpse his own Orb but the lesser is subject to the greater and in helpless revulsion he can’t avoid witnessing the horror. To begin with the blood-thirsty orc hosts arrive in strands of stealth and suddenly brake upon the under-equipped and ill-prepared elves of the coast. For too long Cirdan had trusted in his mighty walls and towers; but now his enemies come with easily assembled engines that can undo brick and stone, and they bring fire wherewith many peoples are cruelly slain. The twin haven-towns are utterly destroyed whereat many of Cirdan’s folk are unable to take ship; with those at the forefront reaching the quays too late being driven into the sea, most are taken captive and few escape. Now, for love of Ossë and Uinen, Cirdan ever lived on the coastline and he himself commanded his fleet towards the Isle of Balar; and with him went his ward, Ereinon, the presumptive heir of the Noldor whose father died at Gothmog’s hand some years before. But beyond the water the Balrog will not go, and the remnant that are able to follow Cirdan pass down the banks of the River Sirion to its sandy delta nigh to the Isle of Balar, where in after days is founded a new haven. 

Alas, Húrin was constrained to look upon every evil deed of that day, and whatever else that followed in the aftermath, until Morgoth had taken his fill. At length the Dark Lord puts down his Orb and extending his tired limbs says “Ah, it is good to stretch, isn’t it? …Húrin?” but Húrin sits in mortified silence. Morgoth asks “What ails you Húrin?” and still receiving no reply speaks again, as one understanding something new: “Ah of course, you have not stretched your limbs for over a year have you? Well, I guess you cannot run from here: I suppose I could give you five minutes release from your holdfast!” 

“You truly are The Morgoth!” interjects Húrin: “You assail the undefended and slaughter the innocent without restraint, and this delights you; then you speak to me of stretching my limbs as though I am a pet or even your child. You are the child, Morgoth: a treacherous wicked child that knocks down what is not his own and knows no boundaries; you are the noxious brat that cannot share with its siblings; I should pity you but all the more do I hate you! I am not your secret friend, neither your confidant nor am I your student; and so do I now wilfully, knowingly and cheerfully spurn your teaching, and if only I were able I’d spit on you! Look on me thou villain, I may be naught but a prisoner but I am no longer thy plaything! I say to thee now Morgoth, even with the eyes of death, keep thy plans to thine own and get thee gone from my sight!” 

Morgoth answered: “Thou hast chosen, so be it! Still, I do not release thee from my doom; so sit now there, see with my eyes and hear with my ears! Henceforth I confer on thee thy Orb, which I will that thou shalt use daily, during the hours of light; and thou shalt hear if I require aught else! Thou hast seen, even on this very day that thine Orb is as a slave to mine, for mine records all that thine communicates; therefore I shalt know if thou should disobey my command. Begin thee on the morrow!” 

And Morgoth went, even as Húrin demanded; and for a long time he spoke to no other but he never forgot Húrin’s words nor did he ever forgive them; but Húrin he slew not!

For many days Húrin sat in anxiety, fearing the consequence of his rash words against Morgoth; he expected to be beaten, or tortured, or starved; at least to be left in his own filth; but his fears came to nothing and the deadening tedium continued as before. His days became less evil for he no longer had to suffer the petty whims of Morgoth, who visited not; and life continued in the same fashion as before for many long years to come. The Orb though was ever present, and Húrin knew that whenever he looked into it then whatsoever he saw would ultimately become known to his enemy; albeit his Orb never attuned itself to Morgoth’s or any other of that ilk. However, he had been commanded to use his every day and dared not risk the barrage of unwanted attention that disobedience would bring. Thus he proceeded in this way: he focused his attention in quick bursts on whichever Orbs he could detect, then he’d randomly flit from Orb to Orb and back again so as to scramble what he was seeing; in so doing, he hoped to leave the impression to whomever monitored him that he was impatient and bored; and more, he desired (if it were possible) to obscure the actions of any others that may prove useful to his foes. Indeed he became so proficient in this that he was able to follow the threads of vision from earlier scenes from particular Orbs and therefore formed a coherent, if somewhat disjointed, picture of the world without.

Upon instigation of this process, Húrin repeatedly happened on a specific view that never seemed to change, save only for seasonal effects or the passing by of wildlife. The scene effectively consisted of two vertical semicircles: on the right side stood only tall grass curving and fanning away from the imaginary centre line of this natural composition; and on the left was a dirt road that went off into the distance; and barely perceptible on the other side of the track was a sliver of green, probably the same genus of long grass. The mystery of this site’s location in Beleriand, even its unexceptional nature, made it all the more intriguing to Húrin, whose best guess as to why that Orb was there in the first place was simply that it must have been dropped led him to all kinds of supposition; and in order to pass time he invented myriad scenarios about it, nevertheless he would have to wait a long while until he learned the truth of the matter.

Morgoth indeed plotted retribution as touching the thorny issue of Húrin’s impudence but he could never settle on what it should involve; he took his accuser’s damning appraisal to heart and speculated overlong how best to respond without proving him right. Still, if it were a matter of simply crushing an irksome foe then Húrin would be long dead and none in his retinue would think aught of it. Yet the same questions increasingly plagued him: Why did he have to make a grand show and build that scaffold and continually use it, and what now of its remaining or dismantling, and how will either choice look; What right did Húrin have to speak to him thus, and who or what gave him such audacity; but most vexing of all: Why did it even bother him? The roots to answering these questions lay in the spurning of his tutelage and tutorship by Húrin, but Morgoth was far too conceited to admit this; and thus self-hampered he festered in mind and became inactive, receiving none in his presence. At length, it happened that the survivors of the Havens were brought chained to Angband but Morgoth chose not one among them to daunt in person as was his wont; therefore nothing was learnt of them and they were simply put to work as thralls. It was actually this incident that set tongues wagging (rather than any of the concerns Morgoth held privately of late) and many captains wondered at their lord’s conduct, yet in terror of him they dared not speak openly about it; but who in Angband really cared about their tyrant master’s frame of mind anyway: for their hearts were ruled either by secret defiance or broken acceptance. Moreover, the line between captor and captive was exceedingly fragile there; indeed any slave or any driver could easily find themselves on the wrong end of a blade, whip or flail at any time and for any reason.

During the first decade of Húrin’s captivity Morgoth’s forces reasserted their strength across the vanquished northlands of Beleriand. His garrisons rooted out all the secret byways that connected folk and laid heavy guard and tribute on them, for divers shoots of autonomy sprouted up in the days of their lord’s silence; and the many subjugated ones who rebelled against their petty overlords were slain but the more who couldn’t pay them were sent away into thraldom, and Angband's mines swelled in those days. For a time, Húrin had taken to viewing only the places wholly under Morgoth's domination and he witnessed much evil, again hoping to shield anybody else who opposed his enemy; but in the end all proved futile for Morgoth controlled all the Orbs and for a long, long time his stranglehold only ever seemed to tighten.

At length a long dreaded day dawned upon Middle-earth, being the very same on which for the eighth time the artificial vortex of ‘Evil Breath’ came and went about Thangorodrim; for on that gloomy autumn morn an orc company marched into Hithlum, whose ill-fated folk already suffered under the boot of the Easterlings. Their chief, one Lorgan, was most ill-pleased at this for these lands were gifted to him in return for his treachery during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad; but Morgoth sent messengers feigning that he wanted to bolster Lorgan's power base with a peace-keeping company. “Hithlum is a shielded land and needs no such force,” protested Lorgan, “To the entire south we are encompassed by mountains and in the north stands our protection; indeed we are bottled and sealed, and quite safe!”
    “Nevertheless, our lord wishes it!” said the messengers.
Lorgan guessed randomly at the reasons behind this thinly veiled bequest, knowing that he could do little to prevent ‘his land' from becoming an occupied territory: “I still hold sway in Hithlum!” said he, “These so-called ‘Keepers of the Peace’ must submit to my will while present in these lands!” and the messengers departed, leaving no sign or token of agreement or disapproval. Thereafter the newly dubbed ‘Migrants of Angband’ offered Lorgan no noticeable trouble, and for the most part removed themselves to the southern region of Dor-lómin or east beyond the Mountains of Mithrim. It soon became apparent that the orcs were not there for the benefit of the self styled ‘Master of Hithlum’ but for other undisclosed reasons; verily Lorgan played but a trifling part in Morgoth’s reprisal against the true Lord of Dor-lómin, whom he yet detained.

Lorgan’s Folk tended to shun the region of Mithrim, for in that land there dwelt a remnant of Grey-elves taking refuge in the mountains; these are the same folk that Rían took her infant son, Tuor son of Huor, to be fostered ere she died of grief on the Mound of the Slain. There is an enduring fire in elves that the Easterlings understand not, for it sustains them; which is for the most part manifested in the grace and peace of their disposition or as the wisdom reflected in their eyes; conversely, once turned to wrath their countenances become terrible and their gaze incendiary, with this state being most evident when they enter battle. The Easterlings did not encounter this latter flame in the elves until the Union of Maedhros and the revelation of it caused great apprehension among them; however, mannish culture (and pride) is such that one must dare not show fear in the face of an enemy or a comrade, for shame.

Now the homestead of Húrin stood in South-east Dor-lómin, nigh to the northern slopes of Amon Darthir closest to the mountain pass where elves were known to dwell in adjacent Mithrim; and for a time, during the first spreading out of the Easterlings, these regions they eschewed. At length however, one Brodda (seeing an opportunity to garner recognition among his peers that was otherwise lacking) seized the governorship of Húrin’s domain for his own and in so doing was well rewarded for his boldness. He publicised that there would be an inclusive tour of the territory in which he undertook to impose and initiate his new found authority; to imprint himself upon and daunt any of the disheartened; and to rightly measure the value of what he actually had in his grasp. Thus it was that he happened upon the Lady Morwen who from the start he feared, for the elf-sheen (with which she was named Eledhwen) lit her eyes, and by the force of her will she stared him down; yet had Brodda only known it, she quaked inwardly as she placed her frail person between the great brute at her gate and her young son hidden in her house.

Long ago the first Lord of Dor-lómin, Hador Lórindol, took possession of this property shortly after construction began; at that time it acted as a public administrative centre rather than a home, which he kept separately; however, during the latter years of his governance he added a whole western wing with its own living quarters and private grounds nigh to the stream of Nen Lalaith. This he did in preparation for the succession of his son, Galdor the Tall, and as a homely foundation for his extended family. The public sector of the house opened onto a large circular paved courtyard, around which stood three other structures at ordinal points: the largest faced the Lord’s House and served as a municipal banqueting hall, while the other two were a workshop and stable respectively, both still very substantial in size; and dividing these buildings into quadrants were four roads, similarly pathed to the outer court. These major thoroughfares branched out into the town but met only at the point where they crossed at the central parade, whereupon its point of intersection there stood a pillar and font. This small monument venerated the deeds of Beren and Lúthien being one of many placed in towns across all Beleriand, it was a simple birdbath for nightingales, dear to the Ladies of Menegroth; and being built by craftsman of Doriath they were received upon request as gestures of goodwill from Thingol and Melian. The setting of the font in Dor-lómin corresponded also with the year of the birth of Urwen, Húrin and Morwen’s first daughter, who in her young life loved the singing of the birds that came there. In the years after the capture of the Silmaril from Morgoth’s Crown news of these objects came to the Dark Lord’s ear and he ordered them destroyed on sight; however no orcs had entered Hithlum since the return of the Noldor to Middle-earth and the pillar outside Húrin’s house remained untouched. It appeared that this was the last (or the only) one in Greater Hithlum: and by the command of Morgoth it was topped with an Orb, whereafter a watch was put upon it and explicit threats were made with regard to any abuse or removal of the same.

In those days Húrin feared greatly for his wife and daughter lest they be sought out and dragged to Angband; but the Great Enemy had other plans and ordered that they should be let alone, gambling correctly that a husband’s and father’s anxiety would compel that very one to search for his kin regardless, abandoning whatever caution that one had formerly employed: thus after years of brooding, Morgoth enacted his vengeance against the words of Húrin.

In the interlude ere Túrin’s eighth birthday and the last day Húrin parted from his family, he expressed his disquiet to Morwen lest the coming battle against Angband should go ill, and he told her too of his fervent hope that she would follow their son to wheresoever she would sent him; but he knew her heart too well and felt sure that she would not lightly renounce their home or the land they had governed. The mounted Orb offered all-round vision to Húrin but in spite of this never once did the Lady of Dor-lómin venture forth into the public area, and his heart’s desire of seeing her from his seat was denied; indeed some part of him regretted not taking up Morgoth’s offer to have the Orb installed years earlier, but at least this way he was not in the monster’s debt.

Húrin lost count of the days he searched for any sign of his wife in that Orb, and knew not the number of hours he spent watching the communal entrance to the house they had inherited, all to no avail. He found zero activity there whatsoever which was completely foreign to him, for in his time all formal matters of convention took place behind those doors; and indeed it now seemed that such business had switched places with the banqueting hall. The Lady Morwen often had a hand in civic affairs in the former days of Húrin’s rule (predominantly during any absence by him) and her absence at this time disconcerted him; indeed for a short while he feared that the last vestige of his family may have been killed. However, confirmation of life came to Húrin by strangers who gossiped openly about the ‘Witch-wife who lived in the big house!’ and while this disrespect towards his wife angered him, it cheered him too; for he knew she had endured and he laughed at the thought of her formidable temperament keeping those rats at bay.

The familiar backdrop displayed in the Orb (being populated by mostly unrecognisable figures, speaking in a horrid dialect and engaged in awful deeds) soon lost any pleasure for Húrin; for he became saddened by the state of disrepair and by the lack of enthusiasm in his old land. Dor-lómin had always thrived under the patronage of its elven neighbours ere their removal; but now alas, with the loss of a generation of manhood, all ability in woodsmanship, sea-craft and husbandry diminished fast. The Easterlings imported their goods on great wains, having long ago stolen aught of value from the Hadorians; and they were greedy and mean-spirited, sharing nothing of their bounty with the subjugated folk whom they treated as beasts of burden to fetch and carry for them, or worse. Indeed anybody whom Húrin seemed to remember appeared gaunt and weathered to his pitying eyes and within himself he cursed Morgoth all the more.

Among those he clearly recognised was a kinswoman on his grandfather’s side, The Lady Aerin daughter of Indor; she is the same age as Húrin and he fondly recalled when her immediate family relocated nigh to his home at the invitation of Hador. As recent incomers into a new region Morwen and Aerin became close in their formative years, whereupon the former drew on her friend’s familial connection to gain access to the young lord, Húrin, to whom she took a fancy early on; who for his part was protective of Aerin and often warned off unwanted suitors, not least his younger brother; for even now she maintained her natural beauty which she always had from girlhood. Yet, when she was fourteen there was one to whom her eyes turned, but he was a soldier five years her elder and naught could come of it; henceforth he and Aerin pledged to wait and were closely watched. Yet alas, in that same year Morgoth broke the Siege of Angband and the young man didn’t return from the Dagor Bragollach; thereafter her heart’s love was given to no other. How sad then for Húrin to learn now that she was taken perforce into marriage by Brodda the Easterling. Now Húrin knew little of the doings of this ‘Incomer’ Brodda (save by word of mouth) for he dwelt some way up the north road, as viewed through the Orb; for in the days after the usurpation it soon became apparent to all that the new lord seldom ventured abroad in public but preferred to summon others to himself.

Indeed Húrin’s first sighting of Brodda occurred when he oversaw a public flogging outside the stables. It happened that his horse came up lame whilst riding and rather than look to his own lack of consideration for a mount he blamed the smith who last shoed the poor creature. The brutality of the scene was no doubt staged to deter those already under his oppression; for not since the days of Húrin’s administration it seemed had that area been so filled with Hadorians. And yet, even in spite of this poor man’s fate, Húrin looked for Morwen in the crowd and found her not; for even if she had verily beheld that gruesome spectacle (as all were commanded so to do) then perhaps she watched from an overlooking window. For thus Morwen had fully withdrawn from public life and through unanticipated consequences Aerin became the de facto Lady of Dor-lómin, albeit under the dominion of her husband; but the blood of Hador still ran in her veins and she never forgot her people, or the depth of her friendship toward the one whom she replaced. And the Lady Aerin used her position as Brodda’s wife to aid the demoralized folk wherever she could but it wasn’t easy with the persistent eyes of the Easterlings on her most of the time; they were a cowardly lot at heart who exploited betrayal as a currency in exchange for favour, vengeance or sport; therefore anybody (including themselves) having dealings amongst them had need for caution. Still, the Lady of Dor-lómin had excellent leadership qualities and organisational skills which her husband quickly recognised; whence of her he reaped a bountiful harvest, for he instinctively knew how to put ability to work much like aught else under his authority. That is not to say that Brodda grew softer towards Aerin as ever the more she proved her value, for he was a churlish brute and an angry quick-fisted drunkard; yet his subordinates learnt quickly not to speak disparagingly against her, for whenever he was exclusively amongst them he boasted of her as a trophy, and for his part, in this way he prized her highly. However there was this: from the first Brodda put a strict ban on aiding Morwen in any way, decreeing: “IF THAT ‘WITCH-WIFE’ IS TOO HAUGHTY TO COME AMONG US THEN NONE OF US SHALL GO AMONG HER; FURTHERMORE, AND WITHOUT EXCEPTION, ANY THAT ARE FOUND GIVING HER AUGHT OF RELIEF OR SUPPORT SHALL HAVE THE VERY SAME THINGS THEY GAVE DENIED TO THEM!”

There were other ladies too (whom Húrin knew to be the widows of his fallen brothers) who faired much less comfortably than Aerin; many of whom were pressed into drudgery in their own homes without the covering of a husband nor the authority of themselves being a wife, and their lot was harsh. Moreover, there came no word to Húrin through the Orb regarding the fate of any boy who was too young at the time to go to war ere the great defeat, and never once did his eyes or ears chance upon the flourish of Hadorian youth; the best he could hope for these young men was that they had been put out to work by their oppressors but realistically he feared the worst for them. One among the aged whom Húrin knew well was his servant, Sador, the self-maimed ‘Labadal’ and beloved friend of his son; he was often alone in a corner of his workshop, labouring on trifles, having none to teach in the craft of working wood. In those days the hapless old man had been charged with the safe keeping of valuables that the Easterlings wished to stow away, for the greater part of his sawmill had become naught but a storage area for their illicit goods. However, there was one who visited Sador at whiles in his isolation, a young girl of six or seven years who would deliver a covered basket containing fruit and bread. Húrin had also seen the child in the company of Aerin who treated her as a favourite, and he took her to be the daughter of the Lord and Lady of Dor-lómin for the resemblance to Aerin’s younger self was strong: fair hair, a slight frame and natural beauty; verily he guessed near, for truly the likeness was that of the House of Hador but her beauty stemmed from her mother, Morwen; yea this was Húrin’s third child, Niënor, whom he never cradled in his arms.

If there had been an Orb stationed at the Caves of Androth within the Mountains of Mithrim then perhaps Húrin would have laid eyes on a certain child there, who being of a similar age to Niënor he could not mistake for he so resembled his brother as a boy; for in that place dwelt and throve his nephew, Tuor son of Huor! The lad was fostered in this region by Annael, the leader of a small group of Grey-elves at Mithrim, when his mother Rían begged him to take care of the child upon hearing of the likely loss of her husband.

Now the chief reason for Morgoth entering Hithlum (besides retaliation against Húrin) was the rumour of this last remnant of settled elves that still evaded him, and whom in his spite he would hitherto flush out. He found them out when a covert scouting party from Mithrim was intercepted nigh the eaves of the Woods of Núath and brought before him at Angband. He guessed that they were seeking safe passages to the coastal lands where his orcs do not venture; for news had spread through all Beleriand that many displaced peoples were gathering for safety in the regions away south about Cirdan's Isle nigh to the Mouths of Sirion. And so, after a considered period when Annael’s folk did not return to Androth, the Mithrim elves were compelled to halt the search and were again forced to continue to live by stealth in the caves; only now their lives were further straitened with the encampment of orc spies about their lake. After a year of deadlock Morgoth grew impatient with the unsuccessful capture or slaughter of a single Mithrim-elf and he sought in his private counsels to come at them by another course; at length he sent forth a superintended gang of thralls out from his mines to the river sources about the mountains at Ered Wethrin, requiring them to find fissures, caves and tunnel complexes so as to discover an alternative pathway in order to reach the hidden Elves, and all this he attempted in secret. However, with the transportation of thralls, overseers and machinery there came the inevitable overflowing of undesired elements about the Northern Marches of Doriath; therefore, before long King Thingol was put on alert and he would not suffer any enemies to patrol so close to his lands. Queen Melian advised against provocation, deeming that: "A hot dispute can soon lead to an avoidable war!" but Thingol sent out armed wardens out to deter them. As always, the wisdom of Melian proved true; and although Morgoth could not yet come against Doriath (because of the enchanted Girdle round about it) he was determined that his plan would work, thus he lessened his workers numbers but increased the frequency and intensity of their quotas. Therefore, the thralls of Angband endured back-breaking work for several years, but the mountains were too densely clustered and Morgoth's hope was wholly denied.