The Reckless Hearts of Mortal Men by mouse

---

Heroics

While travelling through the Mountains of Mithrim, Húrin and Huor accept a side quest to confront some fell beasts, and make a new friend.

---

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.