The Reckless Hearts of Mortal Men by mouse

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Union

Easterlings, Edain, Naugrim and Noldor meet to plan their assault on Angband. Everyone offends each other.

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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.”

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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.