The Reckless Hearts of Mortal Men by mouse

It was hard to make Túrin laugh, especially after Urwen’s death, but Húrin still tried.

“Túrin, can you guess what I saw in the woods below Amon Darthir?” he said as he settled his son on his knee. It was very early in the morning, but Túrin was awake to say farewell to Húrin and Huor, who would depart for Barad Eithel that day. The boy’s hair was sleep-tousled but his face was alert. He shook his head and waited in silence for his father to continue.

“It was a black bear standing on his hind legs at a beehive. He was cutting out all the honeycomb and storing it in a jar. Do you think he was taking it home to eat on his bread?”

Túrin looked askance at him. “Bears do not eat bread.”

“Do they not? What about cake? Surely they eat cake.”

Túrin glanced at his mother, who stood by the fireplace, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders and looking unimpressed. Húrin knew that Morwen thought fanciful stories were more likely to confuse their son than amuse him. Túrin shook his head again.

“Not even on their birthdays?” Húrin said. “Then I pity them. Well, I know how much you like honey, so I asked the bear if I could have some of his. I spoke courteously to him, using all the proper honorifics, but he refused me, and insulted me for begging a favour. So what do you think I did?”

“You slew him?” Túrin asked.

“No, I tickled him,” Húrin replied, grabbing at Túrin’s sides. “And he was so ticklish that he begged me to take the honey so that I would stop.”

He thought Túrin smiled a little, but it might have only been a grimace, and the boy swiftly wriggled away from his hands and off his knee. Húrin smoothed out Túrin’s hair as he stood up, saying, “There is a jar of new honey in the kitchen. Tell Nurse to put some on your breakfast.”

When Túrin had run off to the kitchen, Húrin walked over to Morwen, pinning his cloak closed at his shoulder. “I will not be away long this time."

“I doubt that is a promise you can make,” she said.

“I will return here directly from the council.” He kissed her cheek, and when she made no further response, he left the room. He found Huor in the kitchen, sharing Túrin’s breakfast, and beckoned his brother from the doorway.

“The sun is hardly risen,” Huor said, still munching on buttered bread as he joined Húrin in the hallway. “Do you want a few moments longer? It must be difficult to leave again so soon.”

Húrin didn’t answer, and walked ahead of Huor to push open the front doors of his house. He could not lie to his brother, and the truth was that it was not difficult for him to leave. Since Urwen died, he felt more at ease away from home than he ever did being there. He knew that Morwen grieved for their daughter as deeply as he did, but she bore it with a dry-eyed bitterness that confused and hurt and sometimes angered Húrin. At night when he lay in bed with her silence and his heart breaking within him, he would wish that he was camped on the marches of Hithlum, where the rough-housing and bawdy jokes and fierce loyalty and desperate valour kept his mind off how helpless he felt.

Arroch was already saddled and tied at the fence beside Huor’s horse, Feirdal. Húrin kissed the nose of his horse in greeting, and Arroch responded, he thought, more warmly than Morwen had. Húrin felt the tension begin to leave his body as soon as he mounted and took up the reins in the hand of his shield arm. He accepted the battle-axe handed up by his groom, slinging it across his lap, and let out a sigh.

“So, did Rían agree to wed you?” Húrin asked his brother as they began to trot away from his homestead, riding close beside one another.

Huor cleared his throat and looked away. “I have not asked her yet. I want to finish clearing my land first, so that I can plant more. My crop of carrots this spring was not as large as I hoped.”

“Ah, Huor, you don’t need to grow large carrots just to please Rían. I’m sure she will learn to be content with that little bean pod of yours.”

“The carrots are for eating, actually,” Huor replied. “Though I know you enjoy putting them in other orifices.”

“I’d like to put them in my ears before I ever listen to you say ‘orifices’ again. You might want to use a different word with Rían,” Húrin advised him. “I doubt she wants to hear you praise the delights of her orifice.”

Huor jabbed Húrin in the ribs with the haft of his axe, then moved his shield to block Húrin from retaliating. “Kindly do not speak of Rían that way, Orc-breath. Did you manage to find the right orifice on Morwen this visit? Or was it her turn to wear the trousers?”

Húrin leaned over to flick Huor very hard in the ear and said, “Don’t speak of my wife that way, you Troll’s ass.” He dug his heels into Arroch’s sides to charge ahead of Huor’s attempt to smack him away with his shield, and said laughing over his shoulder, “If you think there’s only one right orifice, then Rían has something to teach you. Perhaps she can demonstrate with your fine carrots!”

It took them most of the day to ride north to the pass they would take through the Mountains of Mithrim. They had a great deal of ground to cover yet, but it was only the cusp of autumn so the days were not yet short, and Húrin had long practice at keeping Huor on the move. Huor was by nature a dawdler. Not because he was lazy, but because he delighted in watching birds and other wildlife and was easily sidetracked. He had always liked animals, but ever since their encounter with the great eagles he was convinced he would find other beasts capable of conversation.

At this time of year, birds, hares and deer were popping out of the bush everywhere in Dor-lómin. The best way to keep Huor from trailing after them was to continually draw his attention to points of interest further ahead. When that flagged, Húrin suggested that they footrace beside the horses. Huor loved to show off his speed. When all else failed, Húrin would simply slap the rear of Huor’s horse with his reins, or knock off Huor’s helm, or in some other way provoke his brother into chasing him.

When they reached the foothills of the Mountains of Mithrim, the brothers dismounted to stretch out their legs, leading the horses at a walk. The low sun breaking through the branches of pine, spruce and alder trees warmed Húrin’s back, and the smell of manure and woodsmoke they had ridden through in Dor-lómin was replaced by the sweet freshness of pine resin. Huor was sharing his dinner of oatcakes with Feirdal. “Shall we stop and try the fishing on Lake Mithrim?” he asked in between bites.

“Maybe on the way home,” Húrin replied. “There is a time set for this council. I will not make the lords of the Eldar wait on us.”

“Will the Lord of Himring be there? Who was tormented by the enemy for however many years?”

“I expect so. He is the one who spearheaded this alliance with the Eastrons.”

“Have you met him before?”

“Once, years ago. We did not exchange much more than a nod. He was less interested in Atani than he seems to be now.”

“Is he as strange and terrifying as stories make him out to be?”

Húrin shrugged and cocked his head as he thought back to his brief encounter with the son of Fëanor. “He reminded me of a horse that has been badly treated. You know, if he sees his shadow he might kick, or try to trample you. Best to give him a wide berth if you can.”

Huor mulled over that, dusting crumbs off the front of his shirt. “Are the rumours true, that he and the high king are lovers?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Húrin answered. “And the other rumours as well.”

“What other rumours?”

“That they like to bring a young Edain warrior into bed with them, and utterly debauch him. I pray they do not decide on you, brother.”

Huor shot him a look. “Well, although I am better looking, they might prefer you because you are smaller and more vulnerable.”

“It is nothing to joke about,” Húrin said gravely. “The high king and his mad prince are a dangerous pair. Men have died under them, and I do not mean ‘under’ figuratively.”

“Slain?”

“Not intentionally. But they are Elves, with inhuman endurance and willpower. They can go at it for hours and hours. There is only so much a man can take. I guess at some point your heart just stops, or maybe you bleed out, who can say.”

Huor stared at Húrin, then leaned over to hit him in the shoulder as soon as Húrin began to smirk. “Will you be serious for once?” Huor said.

“If you will stop asking me foolish questions. How should I know if they’re lovers? It was not discussed at the last war council.”

“You speak to the king often enough,” Huor replied, ignoring Húrin’s sarcasm.

“About scout reports and arms supply.”

“What do you think of Fingon? I mean compared to … you know.”

Long habit made them still avoid speaking the words “Turgon” or “Gondolin” out loud, even to one another. Húrin took a moment to consider Huor’s question. Fingon was an impulsive and fiery sort, and so was Húrin, so they got on well and understood one another. Turgon was different. He was as patient and as implacable as a glacier. Húrin knew that if it were Turgon in Fingon’s place as high king of the Noldor, there would be small chance of making alliance with the sons of Fëanor.

The nature of Húrin’s relationship with each was also different. Fingon was his liege lord and commander, and they bonded on the battlefield. Turgon had been his gracious host and his teacher in all manner of lore and arts, and Húrin had been young and worshipped him. He was a little old for those sort of feelings now. He still admired the Noldor, and the bold heroics of Fingon not least, but he understood better that the Elder Children had come into Beleriand with a shadow behind them, just as the Second-born had. For all their might and splendour, the Eldar were not entirely virtuous.

Although it did appear that they were too high-minded for Fingon and Turgon to settle whatever argument was between them by thrashing each other. Húrin thought a good deal of peace and satisfaction could be gained from pinning your brother down and pummeling him into submission, and doing so had never stopped Húrin and Huor from being the best of friends. More likely it had prevented grudges from being held. And Húrin would be very interested to see which of the mighty sons of Fingolfin would win in a fistfight.

“I think Fingon—” he began, but stopped short because Huor was looking past him with a frown, and had slowed his pace. “What is it?"

“I just heard something,” Huor said. “Voices.”

Húrin halted, holding Arroch still as he looked and listened. The Grey-elves of Mithrim were sometimes in the mountains, but they were quieter than mountain cats. He could not believe Orcs would be this deep in Hithlum, unless they walked in from Tol Gaurhoth through more than half of the mountain range. Men, then?

A grey owl Húrin had not noticed on a tree branch let out an abrupt croak. He met its yellow eyes, thinking that to see an owl in the daylight must be an ill omen of some kind.

“I do not mean to startle you.”

Húrin whipped around with his hand reaching behind his head to lift his axe from the sheath strapped to his back. He let the axe fall back into place and dropped his hand. “Try to make some noise when you walk, friend,” he said, exchanging glances with Huor.

Beside a spruce tree stood a Grey-elf. It was easy to tell them apart from the Noldor, who always adorned themselves with metal, and worked gem and enamel details into all their arms and accessories. The Sindar of Mithrim wore deerskin and leather and seldom any jewelry, but their hairstyles tended to make up for this lack of ornamentation. This Elf had dark hair that was cut shorter on the top to stand up fiercely, and slender braids on either side of his face tied with thin strips of fur and small white feathers. The rest of his hair hung in heavy waves gathered loosely into two tails that were wrapped with more fur at the ends. He bore a bow and quiver, and a long-handled axe.

“Silence is better,” the Elf replied. “There is a pack of wolves nearby you should be wary of. Two of them are more than wolves.”

Arroch shifted uneasily beside Húrin, as if he understood. “Werewolves?” Húrin asked, feeling an urge to pull out his axe again.

“The pair who lead have fell spirits, and they are cunning. If I try to follow one, the other follows me. I do not wish to face the pack on my own, and my people are at least another two days’ travel from here, so this is a fortunate meeting. You look like warriors.”

“We are,” Húrin answered. “Not archers, though.”

“Axes will do,” the Elf said.

“Do the wolves speak?” Huor piped up. “I thought I heard voices.”

The Elf gave them both a searching look before he gestured at one of the nearby peaks. “Perhaps you heard the men on that mountain.”

“Men?” Huor echoed in surprise. “Men of Dor-lómin?”

“I have not spoken with them, only seen them from a distance. They have climbed high. A small party.”

They could be hunters, but Húrin could not help suspecting deserters from the guard at Eithel Sirion. The plague that killed so many of their children and youths had left some of the warriors of Hithlum inflamed with desire for vengeance against the enemy, and left others without the will to fight. Those without hope sometimes went into the wilds rather than face their folk, and their lord. He pushed it aside to think on later.

“Are you men of Dor-lómin?” the Elf asked.

“We are, and we serve King Fingon. I am Húrin Galdor’s son, Chief of the House of Hador.”

“I am Huor, also Galdor’s son, not Chief of the House of Hador.” Huor smiled.

The Elf gave Huor a slight smile in return. Probably, Húrin thought, he was impressed by Huor’s ridiculous moustache, which was nearly long enough for Huor to tie some fur and feathers to the ends.

“My name is Annael,” the Elf said. “Well met, Húrin and Huor.”

Annael led them toward a clearing where he had seen the wolves cache the remains of an elk killed the previous day. “I suggest we stand watch nearby, with weapons at the ready, until the wolves show themselves.”

“Will they not scent us?” Húrin asked as they trudged after the Elf, leading their increasingly nervous horses.

“I think we cannot avoid that, unless you want to try covering yourself in the scent of the carcass. No, I can see you do not. The wolves are not fearful of men, so it should not prevent them returning to the cache. And the fell beasts… they may be more interested in us than in food.”

“How did you know them?” Huor asked. “The ones that are more than wolves.”

“I have accompanied the pack since the spring, when they kept a den further south. Two new wolves arrived late in the summer and slew the breeding pair.” Annael looked at Huor. “I do not know what mortal eyes perceive, but to me their nature is very apparent.”

“Were you hunting the wolves?” Húrin asked.

“No. I was observing them.”

“Know your enemy, I guess.”

“The wolves are not my enemy. They are teachers.”

Húrin had not much firsthand experience of wolves, only of the aftermath on the occasions when they killed livestock or the dogs that guarded them. He had heard stories, though, of how a pack hunted together, running down the young and the weak, and tearing into the still-living bodies. “Cruel teachers,” he said, trying to soothe Arroch, who had started to lean back against his lead, ears held flat against his head.

“They can be hard to the sufferings of other creatures,” Annael replied. “But so can Men and Elves. You do not need to bring your horses, if you think they will come to your call afterward.”

“We cannot leave them alone,” Huor objected, trying to coax Feirdal forward.

Annael stopped to watch his attempts for a moment. “They are frightened, but I do not think they are in danger, if you leave them free,” he said. “A healthy horse is not easy prey even for a pack. Otherwise you will have to tie them up, to keep them near while you use your weapons, and then they are vulnerable.”

Húrin held Huor’s eyes. He could tell his brother did not like this course of action, and Húrin did not much either, but Annael made sense. Húrin tied back Arroch’s reins and let the horse go with a whisper of reassurance.

It was sundown when they reached the clearing, and with only a half moon rising that night, and the trees partly obscuring the sky, Húrin knew they would not have light much longer. He saw well enough, but he didn’t have Elf eyes. He could do little until his foe came close to him anyway, since the axe was not a long-range weapon. Throwing it was unquestionably a last resort.

“I am a fair shot,” Annael said, his axe hung on his back and his bow and arrow in hand, as the three of them settled on high ground near the cache, in a sort of triangular formation with their backs to each other. “Even in the dark. With luck, I will take both of the leaders.”

“What about the rest?” Húrin said. “How many are in the pack?”

“There are three adults and four pups, but the pups are nearly grown. The true wolves have done nothing to deserve death at our hands, other than allow themselves to be ruled by fear, and which of us has not done that? I do not think any of them need to be killed.”

“That will depend on what they decide to do,” Húrin countered, feeling the changes that always came over him before combat. His body held a pleasant current of energy and his senses sharpened to his surroundings, while all background thoughts about Morwen and Túrin and plagues and deserters became like those men high on the mountain they could just barely hear. He hefted his axe in his right hand and circled his wrist, then gave Huor a bracing nudge with the elbow of his shield arm.

“Here’s one,” Huor said in a low voice. “Two.”

A pair of wolves had slunk out from the trees into the clearing, sniffing the air and looking right at Húrin with pale yellow eyes. One was quick to dismiss him and began digging nose-down in the ground, while the other continued to watch him. Húrin counted three more pairs of eyes in the trees behind those two, though he could not see that any of the eyes looked more particularly fell than the others.

“Watch yourselves,” Annael warned before he took a long step away from them and drew his bowstring to the corner of his mouth. Húrin did not hear the arrow release because a low growl set his hairs on end and a wolf emerged from shadow to hurl itself at his throat. Its teeth caught and dragged in the shoulder of his axe-arm as he staggered backward and hit the wolf’s face with the boss of his shield. He thrust the wolf back from him and tried to bring his axe to bear.

The wolf released him and hunkered down only to lunge at his legs, but the arc of Húrin’s axe drove the wolf back a few paces after only grazing his leg. Húrin could hear the yip and growl of the other wolves, and began to imagine how it would feel when more of them got their teeth in him, but he dared not look away from the eyes of the beast before him. Its tawny brown and grey fur made it hard to see otherwise in the shadowy twilight. Húrin’s skin felt cold and clammy, though he had not broken a sweat, and fear throbbed in him like a drumbeat.

An arrow cut past Húrin’s head, and he reflexively brought his shield up, as the wolf darted forward and snapped at his left side. He hit it with his shield again and swung his axe, but that wolf retreated, snarling at him while another wolf ran forward and lunged at Húrin’s wounded shoulder. The dull end of Huor’s axehead came down hard on the beast’s head when its teeth dug in, and it immediately let go of Húrin and crouched, half-stunned, before slinking away.

Húrin knocked his shield against Huor’s in thanks, checking his brother over for any obvious wounds before looking around them. Wolf eyes still gleamed in the clearing, but the attacks had stopped, and the Elf was nowhere he could see. “Where’s Annael?”

“That way, not far,” Huor said, jerking his chin. “Come see.”

Húrin kept close to his brother, shield and axe at the ready, but the wolves at the cache only watched them go by. Annael was a silhouette deeper in the trees, his long-handled axe held in one hand, a heap of something at his feet. It was of wolf-kind, Húrin saw when they drew near, but huge and dark-pelted, with a foul smell of rotted meat that came from its open maw. There was an arrow in its side, and an axe-stroke had split the back of its neck.

Húrin shook himself, like a dog, trying to get rid of the dread that clung to him. “And the second?” he asked Annael, who was cleaning off his axe blade in the grass.

“The other one I shot first. A cleaner kill. I would not have been able to take both without the two of you to fend off the others. Thank you, and thank you for not killing the wolves. They were driven by fear of the fell beasts, and now that they are freed they will not trouble us.”

Húrin had only been trying to stay alive, and had not deliberately avoided killing either of the wolves that attacked him. He was about to say so when he realized that the Elf was speaking to Huor. Húrin remembered the blow from the dull side of Huor’s axe on the second wolf, and he was taken aback and not a little indignant that Huor would opt for mercy with Húrin’s life, or at least his limbs, at stake. But after Húrin turned his eyes from Annael’s expression of quiet gratitude to Huor awkwardly avoiding both their gazes, his indignation soon gave way to affection for his brother.

“So, did you get to hear a wolf speak?” Húrin asked Huor.

“Yes,” Huor replied grimly, looking down at the body. “I did not like it much.”

Annael’s Elvish night-sight and woodcraft soon found the horses’ trail, and once they were settled in a clearing a comfortable distance away from the wolves’ food cache, Huor broke up wood for a fire while Annael cleaned and dressed the bite wounds in Húrin’s shoulder. It hurt a little when he used the arm, which he promptly did giving Arroch a quick rubdown, but Húrin was accustomed to hurts and he didn’t pay it much heed.

“Out with it, Huor,” Húrin said to his brother, who was crouched beside the fire, eating an apple while he slowly fed bigger branches onto the small pile of burning kindling. “What do you think this fell beast said to you?”

Huor had been putting him off ever since Húrin first asked, either by diverting the conversation to the tasks at hand or by pretending he didn’t hear. This time he chewed his bite of apple for so long that even Annael looked up curiously from where he was whetting his axe-blade.

Huor swallowed. “It spoke of my death.”

“They were trying to kill us.”

“Not a threat. A foretelling. I did not understand the words it said so much as I saw the sense of them. Like a vision.”

Húrin left Arroch grazing, and settled on the ground beside Huor. “And you think what it showed you was true? Morgoth lives by fear and lies, and so do his creatures.”

Huor tossed his apple core and didn’t answer, so Húrin let him be. Using his saddle for a backrest, he stretched out his legs beside the fire and looked across at Annael. “Why do you think some of the wolves attacked us and others did not?”

Annael laid aside his axe and packed his whetstone into his kit. “I suppose it was a gamble. They might face punishment or death from the leader for not acting, but they certainly risk death attacking armed men. Rule by fear does not encourage heroics.”

Húrin scratched his beard, and used his foot to straighten a firelog that had begun to slip down. “I have seen Orcs and other creatures of evil sacrifice themselves to certain death. I would not call it heroics, perhaps, but fear can drive them like a madness.”

“True. Or perhaps all heroics are madness, and we call them heroics only when we like the outcome.”

Húrin laughed. “Then our high king is as mad as a march hare.”

“Some would certainly call it mad to assault the enemy in his stronghold.”

Húrin studied the Elf. The Sindar of Mithrim paid nominal homage to the Noldor kings who had established their realm in Hithlum, but the Grey-elves who chose to live outside the protection of Doriath were more like Green-elves, dwelling together in small groups without much interest in rulers or cities or wars. Húrin did not doubt Fingon would be trying to recruit the Grey-elves to fight in the assault he and Maedhros were planning. Whether he would succeed was less certain.

“If the enemy will not leave his stronghold, what other choice do we have?” Húrin replied.

“When you say ‘we’, are you speaking of you and I, or a more general, rhetorical ‘we’, as in all the peoples who are not Morgoth’s servants?”

“What difference does it make?” Húrin asked.

“Perhaps none to you. You are young and have known nothing but war in your life, but I have known long times of peace. Peace that lasted for many lifetimes of men.”

“I think that will not happen now,” said Huor. He was cracking open walnuts with the handle of his dagger, and tossing the shells into the fire. “Not unless someone strikes a blow against the enemy. He has grown too strong.”

“And Morgoth’s strength is always greater than he shows,” Annael replied. “Something to consider.”

Seeing Huor eat his apple and walnuts had made Húrin hungry. “Pass me something,” he said to his brother, leaning over to flick his fingers against Huor’s arm. Huor dug around in his food pack and handed Húrin a carrot.

Húrin looked down at the carrot, then at his brother. “Do you not have a larger one?”

“It should fit well in your ear,” Huor said, popping a shelled nut into his mouth. “And any other orifice.”

Chapter End Notes

1. “Feirdal” = quick foot, taken from Chestnut_pod's Elvish Name List.

When the Chieftain of Brethil agreed to send a representative to Fingon’s war council, Húrin expected it would be one of his uncles, Haldir or Hundar. Walking through the double doors that opened into the council chamber at Barad Eithel, he was delighted to see, leaning back against the edge of the table and watching the doors with her arms folded, his favourite cousin.

“Hunleth!” Húrin strode forward, with Huor close behind him. Húrin wanted to embrace Hunleth and pick her up — she was not very big — but he thought that was not an appropriate greeting between political allies at a war council, so he settled for giving her a formal salute and a kiss on the cheek. “I am surprised they could spare you! How many men did it take to fill your place on the north-march?”

“Really, Húrin, are you still under the impression that flattery is the way to my heart?”

“It was an honest question, not flattery. I know the only way to your heart is to best you in a wrestling match.”

“No one has done it yet.” Hunleth stared up over his shoulder at Huor, who was trying to get past Húrin to greet her and being blocked by his brother. “Oromë’s beard, Huor, are you ever going to stop growing?”

“We think he might have been sired by an Elf,” Húrin said, stepping aside to let Huor stoop down and peck Hunleth on the cheek.

Hunleth was the eldest child of their mother’s brother, and unrelated to the House of Hador except by the marriages of her aunt and her uncle. She was all Haladin and it showed in her dark hair and complexion, her low stature and wiry build, and the air of vague mistrust she directed toward anyone not of the Folk of Haleth. She was between Húrin and Huor in age, and when they were fostered in Brethil she had gotten Húrin into all kinds of trouble, none of which he regretted.

“I was sent because all agreed that I speak the best Sindarin,” Hunleth said, in Sindarin, making both Húrin and Huor laugh.

“You speak Sindarin like an unbegotten Doriathrin courtier,” Huor told her.

“With the vocabulary of a lowborn Haladin cutthroat,” Húrin added.

Other than Hunleth’s demonstration of her archaic Sindarin, they had been speaking to each other in the language of the Haladin. Húrin realized that might be undiplomatic when he noticed the others in the room. A Dwarf-lord with a beard down to his toes strolled along the far wall, examining the wood-relief wall panels. An Eastron man and a woman sat at the table, at opposite ends from one another, the man watching their reunion scene while the woman pointedly ignored it. Since they had made eye contact, Húrin nodded a greeting at the man.

“You must be Lord Húrin,” he said, surprising Húrin a little. Often people who hadn’t met them assumed Huor was the chief, merely because he was taller. “I am Uldor.”

The name did not ring a bell for Húrin, but half the Easterlings seemed to be called Ul-something. “Well met, Uldor,” he replied, before Hunleth took his attention again.

“Yes, well, if the king speaks like a northern savage the way you two do, I will be glad to understand a word of this council,” she said.

“I can translate, if there is any trouble understanding one another,” Húrin offered.

“Thank you, but the Haladin will speak for themselves, and hear for themselves,” Hunleth replied coolly. “I am here to determine whether we will proceed any further with this Union of What’s-his-name. No offence, Húrin, but you are hardly impartial.”

“What do you mean?”

“We know how much you men of Hador love your Noldor lords,” Hunleth said. She curled one hand into a fist and placed it next to her cheek, then pushed her tongue into her other cheek, in a gesture that transcended cultural barriers, judging by the smirk on Uldor’s face.

“We are not all as deep in their … counsels … as Húrin is,” said Huor.

“I would guess they are deep in his, rather.”

“To be loved by the king is a family tradition. Is there another way to gain lordship over a fiefdom of fine land in Hithlum?” Húrin asked, and smiled at Uldor.

“I am sorry to have kept you all waiting,” the king’s clear Elven voice rang out behind Húrin, making Húrin very glad they had continued to speak in Haladin. Fingon walked up beside him in time to see Húrin’s smile. “I trust Húrin Thalion has been making everyone welcome.”

“Of course, lord,” said Húrin.

Maedhros Fëanorion followed the king into the room, and Húrin, who had turned to face Fingon, caught his glance. Húrin wasn’t sure whether a smile was a suitable way to greet the Lord of Himring — he might find a show of teeth threatening — so Húrin sobered and bowed his head instead. Maedhros nodded back. It was rather like their last exchange, Húrin reflected, but perhaps a nod was worth a thousand words to the Eldar.

Húrin made a curious study of the Elf-lord. Not because Maedhros was rumoured to be the king’s lover — and Húrin remained skeptical of this, since as far as he could tell Fingon’s only passions were well-made weapons and fast horses. But the story of Maedhros’s capture and Fingon’s rescue more than four centuries before was a legend among the Edain. It was rare that anyone taken to Angband escaped with their life, and those who did were broken in mind and body, and held in mistrust by their folk. Yet here was one who returned as a lord amongst his people, and was said to be a lethal swordsman besides. Húrin was very interested in what sort of person could withstand years of torment from an enemy who knew no mercy.

There were signs of his sufferings still visible: the asymmetry of a nose and jaw that had been broken and set badly, scar tissue around his mouth that gave his face a stiffness. The shoulder of the arm he had been hung from sat a bit askew when he forgot to correct it. It was nothing conspicuous, nothing that would have stood out amongst mortals, but Húrin knew the Eldar had remarkable powers of healing, and thought this must be evidence of the extent of Maedhros’s torment, of the anguish that prevented his will from mastering his body.

Maedhros was a bit taller than Fingon but shorter than Turgon, and did not much resemble his cousins in face or in their taste for princely finery — Fingon always gleaming with gold brooches and armlets and intricate hair bindings, and Turgon with his garnet rings and samite tunics and embossed boots. Maedhros’s only concession to Noldorin vanity appeared to be the fine copper circlet that held back his reddish-brown hair.

Though Húrin heard this alliance called the Union of Maedhros, it was Fingon Fingolfinion who had the trust of the Edain in Hithlum and Beleriand, and it was he who addressed the room, in the voice that could reach the heights of the Thangorodrim, to say, “Be seated, and we will begin.”

The table was a roughly oblong slab of pale red marble set on curved legs of stone, and the shafts of light thrown down from the high windows on the east wall of the chamber did not quite reach it. Fingon and Maedhros sat beside each other at one end of the table, neither taking precedence over the other. On Fingon’s other side sat the Eastron woman, rows of small bronze discs on her headcap jingling faintly whenever she moved her head or adjusted her shawl. Huor sat next to her, staring at the table while he twisted the ends of his moustache, with Húrin beside him. On Maedhros’s left sat the Dwarf-lord, looking disgruntled with his Elf-sized chair, followed by Uldor, who had one elbow rested on the table as he stroked his bearded chin with his thumb and forefinger. Hunleth, sitting opposite Húrin, leaned back in her chair to glance from Huor to Uldor to Húrin, in an appraising sort of way. Húrin smoothed out his own beard and quirked an eyebrow at her.

Fingon began introductions with the Dwarf. “Azaghâl, the Lord of Belegost.”

Húrin perked up with interest. “Lord Azaghâl, your Dragon-helm is the prize heirloom of my house. I have never seen metalwork to equal the figure of Glaurung on the crest. My little son will not go near it for dread!”

Azaghâl was silent for a long moment as he stared at Húrin, and then his head whipped around to face Maedhros. “You discarded my gift to you, the finest work of Telchar?” he said in a voice of quiet outrage. “I have never been so insulted.”

“I gave it to the king,” Maedhros replied. “And not to insult him.”

“My cousin meant to do me a great honour, Lord Azaghâl,” Fingon said easily. “No doubt he was inspired by your generosity. And I gifted it to Húrin’s grand-sire in the same spirit. A helm so splendid must be worn with pride. Regrettably I could not bear its weight for long.”

Azaghâl turned critical eyes back to Húrin, as if to assess whether he was up to the task. Húrin thought he could probably wear the Dragon-helm at need but had never wanted to, deeming that speed served him better on the battlefield than that burdensome helm would.

“Uldor son of Ulfang,” Fingon carried on before Azaghâl or Húrin could say more.

Uldor touched his brow in an abbreviated salute to the king and Maedhros. “Ulfang now rests with his fathers, but I uphold his alliance with the lords of the Noldor.”

“Hunleth daughter of Hundar, of the House of Haleth.”

“I am here on behalf of Halmir, the Chieftain of Brethil,” Hunleth said.

The Eastron woman sniffed. “One other woman at your council, and she is only a man’s messenger. I see not everyone is free in the Free Lands.”

“The Noldor and the men of Dor-lómin prefer to keep their women indoors, and out of politics,” Hunleth responded to her before Fingon could. “In Brethil at least we are allowed to have a voice in council, and to lead a warband.” Hunleth glanced sidelong at Azaghâl, but to Húrin’s mild disappointment she did not broach the mystery of Dwarf-women.

“You would not be the first to think the House of Finwë has too many sons,” Fingon told the Eastron woman, before shifting his attention to Hunleth. “But I can assure you the Noldor would not forbid their daughters from leading in war if any wished to. I cannot answer for the men of Dor-lómin, but here is their lord, Húrin son of Galdor, and his brother, Huor.”

“Comrade Hunleth is misinformed,” Húrin said. “I have always allowed my women to free-roam.”

“And beside me is Bór daughter of Bórlad,” said Fingon. “I thank you all for making the journey to Eithel Sirion. The Lord of Nogrod does not join us this time, but I hope we will meet again before long. My purpose for the council today is that we will, first of all, determine how we might help each other prepare for war, and secondly, agree on the date when our plan will be achieved.”

“To your first point, lord,” said Uldor at once. “It would help me prepare for the war if Bór would stop sending raiders to steal my people’s arms and horses.”

“It would help me, lord,” Bór said just as quickly, “if Belegost did not charge me thrice what Uldor pays for arms.”

“I have a longstanding agreement with Lord Caranthir and his vassals,” Azaghâl rumbled. “I am willing to make an agreement with you, but you have refused all my offers to negotiate.”

“I will not negotiate away my iron mine so that you can deny me a fair price for my own iron,” Bór retorted.

“Especially when you might take what you want for no cost at all,” Uldor said coldly.

Fingon listened with grave attention. Maedhros looked like he was hardly listening at all, until he abruptly straightened up, as if, Húrin thought, someone had given him a jab.

“If Belegost will not offer equal prices to all the parties of our alliance, then we will buy arms from Nogrod,” Maedhros said, earning a dark look from Azaghâl. “Uldor, if you are having trouble with raiders, ask my brother for protection.”

“Protection from his own brother’s vassals, lord?” Uldor persisted.

Maedhros looked at Bór. “Do you send raiding parties into Uldor’s lands?”

“Of course not, lord. Unlike others, I left old feuds behind when I came over the mountains.”

Maedhros leaned back in his seat with an air of finality, apparently deeming the matter resolved.

“Lord Húrin, how do you fare in Dor-lómin?” Fingon asked. “Your people suffered most from the evil pestilence last year.”

Before Húrin could answer, Maedhros followed with a more pointed question. “Did you lose many of your fighting men?”

Thank you for your sympathy, Húrin thought, but he kept his eyes on the king and his sarcasm to himself. “No, lord. We do not lack fighting men. The problem is more that when our men are away fighting or training for war, there are fewer hands for the farm work. Then we eat too much of our livestock over the winter because the grain stores dwindle early, and the next year we are harder pressed.”

“You need more slaves,” said Uldor, nodding. “I can help you with this, Lord Húrin. My cousin Lorgan does a fair trade in the East. If the king will permit us to traffic through Hithlum, I can provide the hands Dor-lómin needs.”

“I do not doubt it. And overseers to drive the slaves, you would provide those as well?” Húrin asked. “Men to watch our lands and our wives while we are away at the war?”

Huor kicked his foot under the table. Uldor eyed him, then spread his hands in a placating sort of gesture, though there was nothing placating in the hard stare that met Húrin’s across the table. “It was an offer of commerce, not a threat,” Uldor said.

Húrin would have responded that in Dor-lómin men were not bought and sold like beasts, but Huor was stepping on his foot, so he said nothing and pulled his foot free.

“Any surplus of grain in Mithrim this year will belong to Dor-lómin, Húrin Thalion,” Fingon said, compelling Húrin to look at him instead of at Uldor.

“Thank you, lord.”

“And what of the Folk of Haleth?”

Hunleth had been following the discussion with a slightly incredulous look on her face, but Húrin suspected this had more to do with her concentration on parsing the dialect than her response to the words being exchanged. When the king addressed her, she assumed a more neutral expression. “No one in Brethil would object to new suits of Dwarf-mail if you would like to purchase them for us, lord, but what would help us most is to know your battle plan. There are some who think Lord Maedhros was, shall we say, premature, when he led attacks on the enemy’s forces, and in doing so has made this planned assault more perilous than when we first took counsel together, by giving the enemy a strong indication of our intent as well as time to come up with his counter-strategy.”

She had succeeded in gaining Maedhros’s full attention, but it was Fingon who responded. “If we had not driven the enemy out of Beleriand and Hithlum, then we could not meet together now in confidence that we are not spied upon, nor count on having secure supply lines for our war preparations. I do not doubt that the enemy will devise new evil to loose on us, but this would have been the case regardless. Morgoth does not sleep.”

Neither do some of his foes, Húrin thought, watching Maedhros’s unblinking thousand-league stare at Hunleth. Did he even see Hunleth? Probably he was calculating how many of Uldor’s cousin’s slaves he would need to buy to replace the warriors of Brethil if they backed out.

Fingon’s face brightened considerably. “But I am willing to discuss the battle plan, as far as we can.” The king sat up very straight, put his elbows on the tabletop and folded his hands, with the eagerness of a scholar about to share his latest treatise. “We will assemble in two hosts, east and west. The western host will be concealed in the foothills of the Ered Wethrin to either side of Barad Eithel.”

Maedhros lounged against his armrest. “My company will issue forth, shall we say, prematurely. I will draw the enemy’s armies out from his stronghold, into the plain.”

“And then we will crush them between us.”

Maedhros and Fingon smiled at each other, like proud parents.

In the end, agreeing on a date for the assault proved to be the easiest part of the council. Summer was the only feasible season in which to move large hosts through mountainous land, and two years was determined to be the minimum time needed to complete the marshalling and armament of the allied forces.

“I believe the number of our forces will increase yet,” Fingon said in a spirited manner that made Húrin also believe it. “I have sent messages to Doriath and to Nargothrond, and await their answers. In the meantime, we will guard each others’ backs to ensure that at least our number does not grow fewer.”

“Guard your tongues as well. Safe travels,” Maedhros said, ending the council.

“What about your brother, lord?” Húrin spoke up, his eyes on Fingon, while the others began to shift their chairs and stand up. “Will word of our plans be sent to him?”

The pause in Fingon’s movement as he rose from his chair was so slight it was unlikely anyone other than Húrin noticed. Most of the others were already on their feet and moving toward the doors, though Húrin saw that Uldor lingered.

“I am afraid it is not possible,” Fingon replied. “I have not heard from my brother for nearly four centuries. No one knows where he is, or if he lives. I wish it were otherwise, Húrin Thalion.” He patted Húrin’s shoulder as he walked behind him.

“As do I, lord.” Húrin pushed back his chair after the king had passed and got to his feet.

“Húrin the Steadfast,” Hunleth said when she met Húrin on his side of the table. “Who gave you that name?”

“The king, of course,” he answered, to her knowing smirk. “He has always been impressed with my firmness and endurance.”

Before she could respond Húrin’s attention was taken by a short laugh from Maedhros as the other was brushing past him. He could not help looking at the Elf-lord, whose outburst was at odds with his grim face.

Maedhros halted. “Apologies. It struck me as ironic. Endurance. When your life is so short.”

The words seemed in poor taste, but Húrin did not take offence, because he did not think Maedhros had spoken in contempt. Húrin thought he had spoken with envy. “It is true I have not been put to the test like you were, lord,” he replied. “Your endurance is inspiring.”

Maedhros made to leave but Húrin addressed him again. “What was it, do you think, lord, that made you able to endure what others could not?”

Perhaps his question was not in the best taste either, if the alarmed expression on Huor’s face was anything to go by. But Húrin thought the Lord of Himring seemed like someone who would not shrink from frank speech. Besides, his captivity was four hundred years past. Surely he could speak of it by now.

“Pride, mostly,” Maedhros answered. “Does that inspire you?”

Húrin thought it was a glib answer. Pride had not stopped Maedhros from begging Fingon for death, twice, if the story was told truthfully. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t. Stories could certainly change over four hundred years. Some tellings had the pair of them making love on Thorondor’s back as they flew away from Angband. Having himself flown on eagle-back twice, Húrin found this very improbable, even without taking into consideration Maedhros’s freshly severed hand.

Maedhros’s gaze held Húrin’s, and though his eyes were as bright and heavy and unfathomable as any Elf’s, Húrin felt a lie. It occurred to him that perhaps Maedhros had not endured his long torment of his own will at all, but was kept alive by the power of Morgoth, to prolong his suffering. Only to be kept alive against his will afterward by his cousin. And as for what kept him going now, well, there was that unbreakable oath.

“Pride has its place, lord,” Húrin said, “when hope must be laid aside. I will remember it.”

Húrin had expected to despise the son of Fëanor, from hearing Turgon tell of the kinslaying and the ship-burning, the seven brothers’ rash oath and their haughty tempers. Instead, though he tried not to show it, Húrin found that he pitied him.

Húrin and Huor were about to leave their guest rooms to meet Hunleth, when a message was brought that summoned Húrin to attend the high king in his private chambers, alone.

After the messenger departed, Huor raised his eyebrows. “I guess they decided on you, brother. If I do not see you again, what should I tell Morwen?”

“Tell her that I died serving my king,” Húrin replied, tossing the summons onto a table. “Or at the service of my king. Servicing my king?”

“I will just tell her you died doing what you love most.”

Húrin smiled and made a rude gesture at him, which Huor returned, and they parted ways. When Húrin was ushered into the king’s chambers, he was half expecting to find the Lord of Himring also there, perhaps kneeling provocatively at Fingon’s feet, but Fingon was alone. He led Húrin into a somewhat untidy library that was dominated by a table strewn with maps, and three harps of different sizes that stood in one corner by the tall windows. While Fingon shut the door and locked it with a bolt, Húrin waited by the table and decided it looked sturdy enough, should the king decide to take him upon it.

“I must ask you something,” Fingon said in a voice of quiet command, standing across the table from Húrin with his fingertips resting lightly on its surface. “As your liege lord.”

“Ask, lord,” Húrin said.

“Do you know how to get a message to my brother?”

“No, lord, I do not,” Húrin answered readily, pleased that he need betray neither his oath of fealty nor his oath of silence. But the disappointment in Fingon’s face soon stole away that feeling. Húrin hesitated for a few heartbeats, before adding, “I do have an idea.”

“An idea of what?”

“Of who might carry a message to him, wherever he is. But they cannot be summoned or commanded,” he cautioned, when Fingon seemed about to speak again. “They must offer to carry it.”

Fingon kept silent while his eyes searched Húrin’s. With his brows drawn together and his face serious, he looked, Húrin thought, very like Turgon. “I understand your meaning,” Fingon said at length, and Húrin wondered if the Elf had just been probing through his mind. “Will they speak with you?”

“That I do not know.” Húrin was taken aback. “I thought you, lord…”

“Possibly. I have spoken to Thorondor only twice since the time he bore me on his back.”

“How did you call him before?” Húrin asked.

“With a prayer,” Fingon answered ruefully. “None of my prayers since then have been answered so swiftly. But it might be possible to send a signal of some kind, the next time we see the Thornhoth fly over us.” Now it was Fingon who hesitated. “The message might be better received,” he said after a short pause, “were it to come from you instead of me.”

“I am flattered you think so, lord,” Húrin replied. He tried to sound flippant, since Fingon could not know the full truth of his words, that Húrin had lived in Turgon’s household for nigh a year. But memories of Turgon, in particular their last conversations before parting, were surfacing in Húrin, with surprising emotional residue. The thought of sending him a message also stirred up emotions that Húrin tried to tamp down. “Even if the words come from my mouth, surely your brother will know the summons is from you.”

Fingon’s brows twitched. “Summons? You would not be so bold as to summon my brother to war, would you?”

“No.”

The king looked unconvinced. “You might be. But I must advise against it. He only needs to be told that a date is set when our allied forces will stand together. Then we will say a prayer that he decides to join us. Stay here at Barad Eithel with me until we find a way to speak to these messengers. You can lend some of your great courage to our guards on the marches.”

Húrin remembered he told Morwen that he would return directly from the council. But he did not think he could refuse the king, given how valuable Turgon’s support in the assault on Angband would be, if they could gain it. And there was the morale of the guard and the troubling problem of deserters to consider as well. Surely the presence of their chief would bolster the resolve of the warriors of Dor-lómin. “Of course, lord,” he said.

Fingon came around the table, standing close enough to clasp both Húrin’s upper arms, his eyes alight. “I know it is early yet, Húrin, and that our allies are a grisly band of brigands, but I can’t help feeling that we have a chance of succeeding at this. Do you feel that way?”

He was irresistible, and Húrin laughed. “Our allies are almost as frightening as our enemies, lord,” he said. “And perhaps that is as it must be. I feel the same. I think we have a hope.”

Chapter End Notes

1. I apologize that Dwarves are underrepresented at this council but the Lord of Nogrod does not even have a name, so he/she/they got cut to keep the number of characters manageable.

2. Bórlad is the name of one of Bór’s sons; I have given it to her parent also. The Silmarillion does not specify if Bór is a man or a woman, but constituent texts might.

3. Anonymous criticism of Maedhros showing his strength too soon is in the "Narn i Hîn Húrin". As for women in Brethil, in “The Wanderings of Hurin” JRRT wrote interesting details about women’s political clout among the people of Haleth... which he later struck out. Argh.

4. Thornhoth is an older legendarium name for the eagle folk.

Winter had only begun to soften into spring, and on top of the south tower of Barad Eithel the wind cut like a steel blade, but Húrin didn’t mind. It was bracing, and he was excited. One of the great eagles had been spotted by the watch, approaching from the southeast. Húrin felt bad for Huor, who had left two days earlier with a scouting party and would be devastated to miss this meeting. But they could not risk waiting on his return.

Húrin stood alone behind the battlements, watching the eagle tilt in the air and drift down toward him, in what looked like a slow and graceful descent but which Húrin knew from experience was terrifyingly fast and steep. Fingon’s signal, then, had done its work, though the king continued to play his harp and sing out an open window lower in the tower, filling the Mountains of Shadow with petitions to Manwë.

Fingon sang in Quenya, which Húrin had seldom heard since he left Gondolin, and the half-remembered words unearthed more memories of his time in the Elven-kingdom that had been buried under the intervening years of war and adulthood. He felt a boy again, flinching at the wind, gazing in wonder at the vast bronze-feathered bird of prey that now stretched out his legs to touch down on the tower, mighty wings splayed wide and then folding in when he landed.

“Greetings, Húrin son of Galdor,” the eagle said, his head turning in quick, short movements as his golden eyes fixed first on Húrin, then swept their surroundings. “Do you speak for the king of the Noldor?”

“Greetings, Gwaihir.” Húrin bowed, pleased the eagle remembered him. “The king has appointed me to speak on his behalf. My message is for Turgon.”

He had not said the name aloud for many years, and found it pleasant in his ears and mouth, though it earned him a sharp look from the eagle.

“You are over-bold,” Gwaihir reproved him, “but I see no enemies to overhear us. Speak swiftly, and I will decide whether to carry your message to the hidden king.”

“Elves, Dwarves and Men prepare for war. One year from this coming midsummer, we will stand together here.”

Gwaihir’s beak lowered while he considered, and then it lifted again. “I will bring him the message. Is there anything more?”

Húrin’s thoughts and heart quickened. Half the winter he had wrestled with this question. What could he say, in a few seemly words, that would be meaningful — something that would reach through that perfunctory message to Turgon and tell him Húrin calls you?

Tell him I have kept my oath? But that implied he thought Turgon would doubt him, and anyway, it was Maeglin, not the king, who had required an oath. Tell him it has been a little while, as the Eldar account it? Too pointed, as if he were making a demand, or chiding Turgon. Tell him I left my heart in Gondolin? Húrin felt an urge to laugh that was not entirely mirthful, but he stifled it.

“Tell him for us the time is short,” Húrin said.

“At least you will return with plenty of time to finish clearing your land,” Húrin said to Huor as they loped beside the river that led to Lake Mithrim. It was a fine day for early spring, with the wind busily pushing clouds onto and off of the sun, and green grass beginning to poke through the drab ground of winter. “You could be wed before harvest.”

Huor made a vague noise of acknowledgment and watched the figure of a hawk gliding ahead of them in the distance. “I might spend some time in the mountains this summer.”

“What for?”

“Scouting. Fishing. Hunting.”

“Avoiding?” Húrin finished for him. “What is the matter with you?”

“Nothing is the matter with me,” said Huor, refusing to meet Húrin’s eyes.

Húrin thought of the fell creatures met on their last journey through the mountains. His brother had not raised the subject of the death-foretelling since, and Húrin felt reluctant to do so now. “Do you think Rían is going to refuse you?” he said instead. “I have never known a girl so smitten. She nearly bursts into song every time she sees your moustache waving in the wind.”

Huor’s face reddened. “I am just not sure that it is fair.”

“That what is fair?”

“To wed her and then leave her. I am away so often. I see what it does to you and Morwen.”

Húrin let Arroch slow to a walk, and Feirdal slowed alongside. It was not like Huor to be so blunt. Húrin felt an impulse to make light of it — distance improves the view, and cold goodbyes mean warm reunions! — but he held his tongue until the impulse died.

“It is not only my going away that comes between us,” he said at last.

“I know,” Huor replied, in an apologetic voice. He nudged Feirdal closer until he could reach out and bump Húrin’s upper arm with his fist, then he squeezed his shoulder. Húrin glanced at his brother and swallowed down the thickness in his throat so that he could click his tongue and urge Arroch back into a canter.

The house was dark when Húrin entered. He didn’t bother to light a candle, but groped his way to his bedroom, and left his clothes in a heap near the door before climbing into bed. Morwen was asleep on her side, facing away from him, and Húrin drifted off almost the moment he settled behind her.

But he awoke, he knew not how long after, when she reached back to drag her fingertips over his cheek and through his beard. Húrin leaned his face into her hand, then opened his eyes when she backed herself firmly into his crotch. He felt himself begin to stiffen in response, and he put his hand on her waist and bowed his head to kiss her bare shoulder. Morwen did not respond much to his kiss, or turn to face him. She only continued to push and bump her naked bottom against him until he was hard, and then she opened her legs a little and reached between them to take hold of his shaft.

Húrin slid his hand down her belly between her legs, his finger seeking the place that would excite her, but Morwen seemed single-minded. She guided the head of his cock inside her, and meeting wetness there Húrin exhaled and thrust the rest of the way in, his head swimming at the sudden glorious squeezing of her around him. He tried to keep his hand gentle while his hips pressed forward, but Morwen pushed his hand away, then reached back again to catch his hair at the scalp. Húrin, aroused and confused, returned his hand to her waist, withdrew his hips and thrust in again. Morwen was silent but she pulled his hair harder, so Húrin thrust harder, and then she made a noise.

It sounded like a good noise, and she let go of his hair and pressed her hips back to meet him, so Húrin forgot gentleness and lost himself inside her, easing up only when he was on the brink of finishing. He put his hand between her legs again, and this time she moved into it. Húrin stroked her with his finger and kept himself mostly still until her back was arched and her hips twitched forward. He rocked into her then, and when Morwen gasped and clenched around him, Húrin groaned and drove as deep as he could to finally spend himself inside her.

He was startled out of his post-coital daze by a drop on his arm. “Morwen?” he whispered, touching her cheek. It felt dry. He wondered if the roof was leaking. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she said.

She still had her back to him, but her body felt relaxed, and her voice sounded even. Húrin kissed her hair and wished she would turn around. The silence stretched out, and Húrin was nearly asleep when she spoke again.

“It is Urwen’s birthday tomorrow,” she said.

Húrin opened his eyes again, the breath leaving him in a sigh. He shuffled down in the bed until he could lay his cheek against Morwen’s back, clasping her tightly around the middle with his arm. “Do you want to do something to remember her?” he asked softly. “We could visit where she is— or we could have a cake with Túrin just like—”

“No,” said Morwen sharply. “What is the point?”

Húrin loosened his arm and drew away from her, laying his cheek back on the pillow.

“All I wanted to say,” Morwen added, less sharply, “is that I am glad you are home.”

Húrin knew he should say he was too, but instead he shut his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

Chapter End Notes

1. "I grieve at this parting; yet in a little while, as the Eldar account it, we may meet again." Turgon's parting words with Húrin and Huor in The Silmarillion.

2. "Lord, we are but mortal Men, and unlike the Eldar. They may endure for long years awaiting battle with their enemies in some far distant day; but for us the time is short, and our hope and strength soon wither." Húrin's words to Turgon.

3. The story title comes from the second version of the "Lay of the Children of Húrin":

“...that the Elves in woe
in ruin and wrack | by the reckless hearts
of mortal Men | should be meshed at last...”