The Eyes and Ears of Morgoth by Chilled in Hithlum

The Seat

Morgoth sentences a prisoner to an unusual term of punishment on the highest peak of Thangorodrim.

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.