The Reckless Hearts of Mortal Men by mouse

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Messages

Húrin sends word of the upcoming battle via Eagle Mail, and returns home.

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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.

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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...”