And Love Grew by polutropos

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Sick and Weary

The host pauses for rest on the eaves of Taur-im-Duinath. Dornil learns some disturbing truths about Maglor. Gwereth does her best to care for Elros and Elrond while struggling against her own grief and anger.

---

A shriek rose from the forest. Dornil’s head whipped towards the sound.

Nothing but an elf-child, her finger pricked while gathering in a thicket of berries. A mortal woman knelt to examine the cut, then treated it with a kiss. The child scurried off to rejoin the others. They were Sindar and Noldor, Edain and Easterling. Not even at thriving Ost-nu-Rerir in the heady years before the Sudden Flame had Dornil witnessed cultures moving so easily between and among each other. The refugees of Sirion were as a tapestry of myriad colours and fibres.

Dornil resumed the rotation of her pestle, grinding to a powder the beech nuts she had collected that morning. It was not a proper lembas preparation, for if any pure strain of Yavanna’s seeds remained they were with women of higher birth and nobility than Dornil. She had only accepted the role of a Breadgiver begrudgingly. Neither Hithlum nor Himring had ever had a queen to dole out waybread with regal airs, but on those rare occasions when Maedhros deemed it politic to observe tradition, the duty had fallen to Dornil wife of Caranthir; then Dornil set the bloodied hands of a kinslayer to grinding of corn and kneading of dough.

When Maglor ordered their rations distributed equally among the host, he said nothing one way or the other of the lembas — so Dornil eagerly broke with tradition and passed it out among the mortals, who had greater need of it than any Elda. They had looked on her with surprise and confusion, even awe, the first time she had distributed packets of the storied waybread, and she had credited the decision to their generous leader.

Dornil allowed that Maglor may have been right to take them into their number. For now, they seemed mollified, even contented. No murmur of discord or defiance had been marked on the road to Taur-im-Duinath. A tightly knit people, they did not make space for their conquerors in their midst, but nor did they seem to wish them harm. If any did, they guarded it deep where not even the sharpest elven mind could uncover it. But for the occasional choked sob under the veil of night, the people of Sirion walked, spoke little, and carried on.

When the host reached the eaves of the forest, Maglor had ordered four days’ rest. Scouts were sent ahead to chart their course while the rest repaired and washed clothing, took inventory of their supplies, tended to injuries, and foraged for food.

Taur-im-Duinath was a strange forest. So dense with vegetation, pressing out to its very edges, as to seem untouched by any creature that fed upon things that grow. Indeed, besides small stream-dwellers and the occasional bird flitting in and out of the crowns of ancient trees, they had seen no animals. Strangest was that much of what lived here was unknown elsewhere in Beleriand. The forest, vast and deep and verdant, was a world unto its own. Silent, some called it, and by day it lay quiet indeed, its thick growth swallowing the chatter, the whinnying of horses, the scrape of the whetstone, the fall of water from wrung textile.

The sounds, too, of children laughing. Glancing up from her work, Dornil noticed the berry-gatherers’ baskets had been forgotten in favour of a game of hiding and chasing through the understory. Dornil’s eyes rose to the darkening underbelly of the clouds. Dusk was coming on.

At night, Taur-im-Duinath awoke. At night, the forest threw back echoes of the day’s noises in strained, shrill tones. Noises that swirled and churned in the mind long after they had died, turning, turning until out of the confusion of sounds voices rose. Voices speaking, shouting, singing.

Screaming, as the child had done when pricked by the bramble. The pestle slipped from Dornil’s grip, scattering the flour over the mortar’s rim. She cursed. The loss was negligible; it was the stumbling of her thoughts that unsettled her.

She would not go mad. There were no voices in the forest. They were phantasms; delusions born of weariness. They could be silenced. She had only to retake the reins of her errant mind.

Her hands trembled. She set the mortar and pestle down on the wagon she was using as a work surface and gripped one of its side panels to steady herself. She felt a familiar presence approaching from behind.

“My lord,” she said, greeting Maglor with a look over her shoulder.

He squinted into the sun, some trace of a smile behind it, then perched himself at the end of the wagon.

He spoke low, with a wry edge, in Quenya. “How much longer, I wonder, until we forgo such titles? How many followers must a man lose before he is no longer a lord?”

Dornil huffed and shook her head. Formalities between them had begun to flake away as soon as their host departed Sirion, such that the sort of friendship they had not known since the days of peace, sitting round the hearth in the opulent chambers of Barad Rerir, had sprung up from the ashes of their helpless plight.

“Do you ask out of fear of losing your titles, lord,” she asked good-naturedly, “or eagerness to be rid of them?”

Maglor’s expression firmed, considering her question. “I know not. One and then the other, I suppose, or both at once.” He crossed his arms and regarded her. “I guess that you believe it is the latter.”

“I do,” Dornil said. Something in his manner made her bold. “Was it not your intent in counselling Maitimo to join the folk of the Havens to us that he, not you, should lead them? Ever have you wished to make him a king, and ever has he refused that title and donned the mantle of leadership only grudgingly. Can you truly be surprised he gave this host over to you?”

Maglor hummed and did not answer. She did not know if his capitulation pleased or disturbed her.

Dornil watched and waited as his eyes darted from place to place, observing the activities of their camp. Then he said: “Does it not weigh on you?”

“What?” Dornil asked.

“That these people have followed us.” He looked at her. “Do you not wonder why?”

Dornil had always thought it indulgent to chase after such unknowable questions. How could one ever truly know the inner workings of another’s heart?

“Because you invited them to,” she replied plainly. “Is it not what you wanted?”

“They might have refused,” he said. “They might have turned back on the road, but none have done so.”

“Their home is destroyed,” said Dornil. “And we are few but we are strong. We command the last fortress that has not fallen into enemy hands.”

“What of Balar?” Maglor asked.

“Balar is a refuge, not a stronghold, and it is defended by the mercy of Ulmo only. There is no reason one Vala might not overcome another. Moreover,” Dornil said, her voice edged with bitterness, “the Valar are fickle and may withdraw their protection at any time. This you know as well as I. Perhaps others have come to see it also.”

Maglor nodded. “I have thought the same.” He paused and threaded his fingers together across his lap. “Though, in truth, I find myself asking again if Moringotho only waited—”

A shriek cut off his words and he stood, hand leaping to the hilt of his dagger. Dornil’s own alarm was quelled by observation of his: the ripple down his jaw, the throb of his pulse beneath it, the tightness of his shoulders. She could almost feel him straining to master his impulse as he released his hold on the dagger’s hilt.

It all passed in the space of a moment, but it was enough for Dornil to know. He heard them: the voices in the forest. Were they both mad? Was it that had led him to doubt his fitness for leadership?

“I think I understand,” she said quietly. Then when he looked sidelong at her, “Do not let it overcome you. They are not real.”

Maglor’s mind — which she had seldom dared trespass since the battle, for it was dark and unwelcoming — opened to hers, seeking confirmation of her meaning. He found it in shared memories of wailing and crying.

“Who do you think they are?” he asked.

“No one,” Dornil replied hastily. “It is as I said. They are not real.”

“I do not think so.” His eyes flickered, the light within made brighter and more immediate by the deepening dusk. “They are souls.”

“They are not. They are figments of the mind.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I thought the same when first I heard them. It is what I want to believe. But yestereve I went to them. I ventured into the forest.”

“My lord,” Dornil interrupted, “you should not wander alone.”

He waved her off. “Has your belief in me fallen so far you think I cannot ward off a few houseless spirits?” His tone aimed at levity but only wavered more for the effort.

Dornil frowned. It was not the imagined spirits she worried about. But it would likewise be an affront to suggest Maglor was not capable of overcoming and subduing any one of their host. It was not them Dornil feared, either. What she feared, she realised watching him in that moment, was that he would not defend himself at all.

She said nothing, but Maglor was unwilling to let the subject rest. He said, “I guessed you heard them when I saw you startle at that child’s cry.”

“Then why did you not begin with that?”

“I suppose I thought you might think me mad. Or that pride might cause you to equivocate, lest I think you mad and unfit for duty.”

Dornil bristled. “My duty is to truth before pride. I would not equivocate, lord. I have never lied to you. I tell you truthfully that the sounds in the forest are not spirits.”

Maglor’s face was half-obscured, angled towards the woods, but Dornil saw how it quivered. How he blinked rapidly. He was like a heart cut open and raw, still beating, and it filled Dornil with the urge to flee. For duty, she did not; but she could not bear to look such transparent pain in the face.

She watched her trembling fingers instead.

Of course Maglor, maker of laments, had been repentant from the first blood drawn at Alqualondë. Dornil had ever respected his strength in balancing repentance and perseverance. Repentance was dangerous, though, for how closely akin it was to guilt. Guilt was the poison that had wormed through Maedhros’ spirit until he was nothing but the vessel, hard but hollow, that had once housed a heart of fire.

Maglor’s guilt, Dornil saw now, had been a sleeping snake coiled at the bottom of a jar. But when Maedhros had forced their separation at Sirion he had lifted the lid. Awoken his brother’s guilt, given it room to rise, escape, and hunt.

Dornil had little faith in her ability to tame it.

“My lord,” she said, “I beg you. Hold your tears.”

Maglor sighed heavily and clasped her wrist, guiding her hand away from where she clung to him. She had not even realised she had reached for him. “Thank you, sister,” he said.

Dornil tensed, taken aback; he had seldom named her thus. But even as he did, he walked away. He whistled a series of three notes and one of the horses roaming freely in the tall grasses lifted its head in answer. Dornil understood, as the animal trotted to his side, that she was not the sort of companionship her lord needed.

---

“There!” said Gwereth. “How does it feel?”

Seated on the carriage bench, Elros examined his boot.

“Can you thank Embor for mending that?”

Embor leaned forwards to meet the child’s eyes but Elros continued to stare at his foot. The sole had come loose three days before — it had taken that long to get Elros’ consent to have it repaired. Gratitude for the repair was, perhaps, too much to ask. Gwereth stole a glance at her friend and returned his smile with a quirk of her lips. She had not wholly forgiven him. When he had first found them among the host, harsh words had passed between them. How could you, she had rebuked him, willingly follow the sons of Fëanor?

“I owe my life to them,” he had said. “Had it not been for Lord Maglor my grandsire would not have escaped the field of Anfauglith, nor been able to save my mother and me.”

Gwereth had spat on the ground at his feet. “They would not have hesitated to kill you in Sirion.”

“They might have tried,” Embor had said. “And I would not have hesitated to slay one of theirs to defend a friend or kinsman. It is the way of war.”

Gwereth had fallen silent. Tales were told among her people of the ancient wars before the Chieftains led their people over the mountains. There had been many wars between Men then, fought over lands and goods; even petty quarrels between chieftains set whole tribes against each other in bloody combat. Their Lady had led them away from that, to Brethil, where they had dwelt in simple peace for centuries.

Then, even in the year of Gwereth’s birth, Morgoth’s malice found her people once more. Turambar was already stained with the blood of his own kinsman when he slew himself; and his sire, grasping at vengeance, infested with Morgoth’s lies, kindled to a roar the ashes of Turambar’s violence and turned all the folk against each other. The Haladin had nearly erased themselves from history on that accursed day: for strife between the last heirs of Haldad’s line brought both men death at the hands of the other’s followers. Though she did not remember them, Gwereth bore the scars of those dark times on her heart — both the remote and the recent. She could not bear to believe that the centuries when Men and Elves stood united against their true Foe were naught but an accident in a long tale of strife and cruelty.

Gwereth did not reveal these thoughts to Embor. No doubt he would say the sons of Fëanor shared their hatred of Morgoth and would continue the fight against him from their eastern stronghold. How could he not see! Fëanor’s sons were Morgoth’s deadliest servants!

They were at an impasse; but Gwereth needed him. Embor was kind to the children and his travelling songs cheered her, too. Aged though he was, he had the strength of a warrior. If it came to it, she believed him: he would guard her and the twins against any follower of Maedhros or Maglor. At last she had ceased her questioning and vowed no longer to speak to him of their captors. She could not risk losing his sympathy.

“Thank you, Embor,” Elros mumbled at last to the carriage floor.

Embor squeezed first his then Elrond’s shoulder. “You are welcome. You will let me know if there’s anything else you need, won’t you? We can’t have you going about with mud in your shoes. You, too, Elrond.” Then he said to Gwereth, “You are always welcome to join us for a meal.”

“Yes, I know,” said Gwereth, as she had a dozen times. She had yet to accept any invitations to sup with his folk, or with any others of the host. Of hundreds who had journeyed with them from Sirion, only Gwereth and the sweet, unknowing children in her charge had been taken from their home against their wills. She felt utterly alone.

With a compassionate smile, Embor rose and left. He walked towards the nearest cookfire, and Gwereth noted several flaxen heads among the coarse dark braids of Embor’s people. Folk of Dor-lómin, then.

Gwereth blinked several times; the backs of her eyelids stung from weariness and grief. Then she turned to the twins and said as lightly as she was able: “Would you still like to join the other children picking berries?”

Elros frowned. “No. I am too tired.”

Gwereth clasped his little hand in hers. The injury wore on him. The elven healers claimed the fracture had been repaired by the strength of Elros’ own spirit, but he complained of headaches and weakness and was seldom hungry.

Elrond said nothing but he was watching the other children with longing.

“Would you like to go, Elrond?”

He shook his head as Gwereth had expected. The brothers cleaved to each other in this sea of faithless strangers who should have been friends, even as she anchored herself to them.

“Very well,” said Gwereth. She half-rose, for the carriage’s ceiling was low, and moved across it to position herself between them. “Would you like to hear a story?”

Elrond nodded, the slip of a smile curving his lips. “Would you tell us about the boy and the Eagle?”

“No,” Elros protested. “That is Papa’s story. Gwereth doesn’t know it.”

“I think I could remember it.” Gwereth decided not to remind them she had told them this tale of Gondolin many times since Eärendil had last been ashore. It was right that it should be a link to their father in their minds. It might be all they had left of him.

So she began the tale of the little boy who lived in a cave in the mountains, safe from the monsters who roamed without. She told how he was visited by an orc but defeated him — not with strength, for the boy was small and could not fight, but with cleverness. “I am only a little boy, I have no meat on my bones!” he said. “There are fat goats who live on the cliffs, they are much tastier than me,” and he sent the clumsy orc tumbling to his ruin hunting the nimble goats on the cliffs. She told how one day a great Eagle took note of the heap of orcs below the cliffs, and, thinking a mighty warrior must dwell in the mountains, he came to visit. But he found only a little boy. Then the Eagle spoke to the boy and asked him what reward he would seek for his valour. The boy asked the Eagle to show him the world without, and the Eagle consented to bear the boy upon his back.

They flew over the land, and the boy saw all that lay about: thick green forests and rivers like silver veins running through pale fields dotted with sheep and little towns standing around cold stone fortresses. And the boy asked if he could go down and explore the lands. But then the Eagle wheeled around to the great fortress in the North, black and tall and terrible, where the Lord of Orcs had his home, and he told the boy he must wait in his cave for the day when the people had gathered the strength to take it down. But when they did, the boy would be old enough to ride to war with them as a hero of his people.

As Gwereth spoke, the sun sank beneath the hills; but its light still filled the sky and painted the thinning clouds a dusty rose. The chilly teeth of night bit at Gwereth’s bare arms and she draped two blankets over the children before throwing a shawl around herself. She could not be grateful for the comforts the host had provided them, small recompense for all they had been forced to leave behind: sweaters knitted by Elwing on nights when the past left her sleepless, quilts hand-sewn by her council, toys gifted by their father and his crew.

Suddenly Elros said, “Do you think an Eagle saved Mother?”

By his tone, more pensive than curious, it was not a question to which he expected an answer. Gwereth longed to offer one nonetheless. The boys had asked few questions on the road. Whether out of compassion or cowardice or both, Gwereth had not spoken of that terrible night either.

“I had a dream she was a bird,” Elros continued, “and flew away with the Silmaril to find Father.”

Gwereth snugged the blanket around their shoulders. “That’s a lovely dream, sweetling.”

“I thought it was not a dream but Elrond says he did not see it.” He turned his eyes up on her hopefully. “Did you?”

“I am sorry, no,” Gwereth said, “I did not see it.”

“Maybe the bump on your head made you imagine it,” Elrond said, then changed the subject: “I am hungry.”

“Good, good, we’ll eat!” said Gwereth, her relief to turn to other matters rushing forth too eagerly.

As she reached for their pack of rations, a dark shape blotted out the light coming through the open carriage door. Gwereth jerked her head in its direction and landed on the shadowed face of the Kinslayer.

“What do you want?” she snapped on impulse; but like some fearful whelp no sooner had she barked than her courage curdled in her breast.

Why now? she thought. Maglor had not yet personally visited them, though it was clear he took an interest. Often he stole glances as he rode past. But otherwise his servants brought news of them to their lord. Most of it, she was sure, came to him from their carriage driver: strangely, that same Green-elf who had turned against his lord when that hideous monster, the one they called Amrod, threatened the twins. Gwereth loved the Green-elf no more for that one act of valour – belated and made meaningless by his continued allegiance.

“Orfion tells me Elros has not yet healed,” Maglor said, then addressed Elros directly: “Is that true?”

Elros shrank back but stared at him with wide curious eyes.

“You will not lay a hand on him,” Gwereth said. He had presumed to do so once, and in her frailty she had allowed it, but he would not again. Who was to say it was not the touch of a kinslayer that had delayed Elros’ healing?

“I do not intend to,” said Maglor. “But our healers have had some success treating injuries of his kind with a root discovered in the forest. I thought you might like to try it.”

He held out a steaming cup. With a wary glance, Gwereth took it.

“What is it?” she asked.

“In truth, we do not know it,” said Maglor. “But it is safe. It has been administered to both elves and mortals with no ill effects.”

Gwereth stared at the tea. It was vibrant yellow with a spiced, earthy scent. Thick slices of an umber root had sunk to the bottom.

As Gwereth scrutinised his offering, Maglor said, “I will let you decide if you wish to try it. Dornil will be by with lembas shortly.” He took a step back then paused, as if contemplating something more to say. Mercifully, he decided against it and left them at peace.

Setting the tea down, Gwereth kicked the doorstop aside and let the carriage door bang shut.

She hoped this visit from the son of Fëanor did not portend more to follow. For her, it was easy to keep the fires of her anger burning. Maglor might perform every kindness he wished. Gwereth would not forget who he was and what he had done. But Elros and Elrond were children. Though they possessed instinctive wisdom on who meant them well and who did not, their wills were no match for an elf-lord of Maglor’s power.

She would have to tell them. She would have to say: The monster who killed your mother has stolen you away and means to keep you captive. But how could one impart such news to a child with no balm of consolation at the ready? If she was to tell them they were trapped, she needed to be able to tell them how they would escape.

Elros groaned beside her. “I do not want to eat,” he said. “My stomach is upset.”

How powerless she felt, looking at him swaying and drooping over his knees. It was unbearable. She sank down beside him and set one hand on his back. With the other she retrieved the mug of tea and held it before him.

“Here,” she said, “drink this. It may settle your stomach.” As soon as the scent reached his nose, he eagerly grasped it in both hands. “Careful, it’s hot.”

He sipped and hissed at the burn, but sipped again. It was not long before he had drunk it halfway down.

He leaned back against the carriage wall and sighed. “That feels better,” he said.

“Good,” said Gwereth, and though resentment of the Kinslayer’s aid simmered in her breast, she meant it when she said, “I’m glad,” and kissed Elros’ temple.

When Dornil, his harsh commander, came by some time later, Elros nibbled his lembas rations happily and later also accepted a bowl of stew Embor brought by.

The children slept soundly that night, but Gwereth found no rest.

---

No phantasms disturbed Dornil on the first watch. The camp was quiet and the moon hung low and heavy, bathing the earth in pale light. If she turned her back to the looming forest, she could almost imagine herself in Lothlann when sweet grasses and wildflowers still blanketed the plains. Here was a place Morgoth’s black fingers had not reached. But nowhere in Arda was free of evil. There were other threats, as yet hidden from them. Unknown and all the more perilous for it.

Thus when Dornil sought Maglor to relieve her and found his tent vacant, her mind, sharpened by centuries of ever-present danger, was at once alert. She sped towards the forest.

No more than twenty paces past the eaves, darkness swallowed her. She lurched to a halt, finding herself short of breath. It was as if the forest, ordinarily a place of abundant breath, had drunk it all for itself. It was unnatural, as were all things about these woods.

She stood gasping while the light in her eyes kindled and adjusted to her surroundings. Thick trunks appeared like tightly packed columns, supporting the impermeable canopy.

There were no signs of movement and for a moment Dornil hoped her fears had been misplaced. Then as her sight stretched further, she spotted on the bank of a silvery stream a figure still and straight as the trees. Every step she took towards him dragged as if the ground itself grasped at the soles of her feet.

She approached cautiously, uncertain in what mood she might find him. But Maglor spoke first.

“You hear them,” he said. His eyes, which either gazed on something Dornil could not see or else pierced deeper than her own, did not move.

Dornil listened, heart half-quaking with fear that the voices would rise around her, half-hoping they would; for if they both heard them at once, would that not be confirmation that they were no illusion? That her lord, and the leader of their host, had not gone mad?

No matter how she strained her ears, she heard nothing but the soft ripple of the stream.

Maglor turned to her. “You do not hear them?” His brows bunched over the bridge of his nose. He was afraid.

Reluctantly, Dornil said, “I hear nothing but the usual sounds of a forest at night.”

“You said you heard them.” There was a strain of panic in his tone. “You do not now?”

She paused, as loath to accept his sickness as she was to reveal it to him.

“Tell me, Nornawen. If your duty is to the truth, as you claim, you must tell me.”

“No,” she confessed. “I hear no voices.”

Maglor’s face abruptly cramped. He pressed his fingertips to his temples. “I hear them so clearly. It was not them before.”

“Who?” asked Dornil.

“Pityo and Telvo,” he whispered. “They are here. They have followed us.” He paused as if listening. “They are angry. Angry with me. They blame me.”

Dornil caught him as he crumpled towards his chest. She had not held him since he had dragged her down to kneel beside him on the blood-slick stones of Menegroth and buried his face in her shoulder where he could not see the ruin of his brother’s body. A gate slammed shut on that memory. Her mind sped back to the present: to the feel of Maglor’s shirt bunched between her fingers where she held his forearms. The weight of him against her chest and the sound of his laboured breathing.

“Would you sit, my lord?”

He did not answer, but allowed himself to be guided onto a rock. She made to extricate herself but he clutched her arm.

“Forgive me, sister,” he said. “I know it is not your nature to show affection. Nor was it your husband’s, but he endured me and now you must also.” Briefly a smile slid across his face, but it turned to an agonised grimace as he lifted his hands to his ears. “Silence a moment!” he shouted as if in answer to someone. “I know, I know,” he repeated in a whisper.

He fought to master his breaths.

“They blame Maitimo, too,” he said. His words were broken by pauses, only half-spoken to her. “And it is true. It is true. We should have died with you. With them. We should have died for our Oath. But how could we? There are yet two Silmarils, two we must pursue. But we did not go to Sirion for our Oath, sister. You know that, you must know that. We went because of them, because they would have gone without us — and yet we let them die. We let them die. We held back, we were too hesitant, too heavy with remorse, and they died at the forefront of battle. We have condemned them to be loathed forever. Houseless forever, as the Doom foretold. Even their bodies we dishonoured and disgraced. Do you know what they did with Telvo? I have seen it. They quartered him with his own sword. They threw his limbs, trailing gore, into the sea.”

He held Dornil’s wrists in both his hands, clutching them so tightly her bones ached. Pausing for a breath, he seemed to notice. His grip loosened. Through the thickening darkness, she strained to find his eyes. Their light guttered, weakened by his torment.

She searched them, troubled most by his admission that the Oath had not driven him to Sirion. Let this be no more than the ramblings of an addled mind, she begged.

Though she had not sworn in the square of Tirion, Dornil had twined her vow of marriage with her husband’s vow of vengeance. She might have resisted it, once, but it was now so rooted in her soul that not even when Caranthir’s corpse spat him out like so much refuse had it loosed its hold on her. Nor would she now want it to, were it possible. The Oath, and the last two sons of Fëanor, were all she had left.

She caught Maglor’s hands in hers.

“Macalaurë,” she said. “Listen to me. You cannot have seen what became of Ambarto’s body. It is not them. Your brothers are not here. It is your own mind feeding on you. It will consume you if you let it.”

Maglor had not heard her. In a dark and distant voice, he said, “If I had held to our Oath, as they did, as our father made us swear, I would not have saved Elwing’s sons. I would have destroyed them.”

---

Chapter End Notes

Ost-nu-Rerir - “City under [Mount] Rerir” thank you Shihali on the SWG server for devising this name for Caranthir’s seat of power.

History of the Haladin. The recent Haladin history that Gwereth remembers is recounted in The Wanderings of Húrin published in The War of the Jewels. A fascinating bit of late First Age worldbuilding, if you haven’t read it and can get your hands on WotJ. It’s basically summarised here, but after being released from Angband, Húrin (as in CoH) finds Morwen in Brethil. What’s not in CoH is the havoc he wreaks afterwards. Long story short, his arrival stirs up conflict between the last two descendants of Haldad’s line (from Haleth’s brother Haldar, since she had no children) that ends up getting both of them killed.

Thank you to Melesta for the early input on this chapter, and to TheChasm for the helpful beta.