The Eyes and Ears of Morgoth by Chilled in Hithlum

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The Orb

Húrin and Morgoth unecpectedly learn from each other

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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!