Life was a balance, Húrin had once believed. No matter what happened, good or bad, life would always balance out its extremes.
This line of thinking was once tested and held true, in the wilderness of Dimbar. He and Huor had been separated from the others in their party at some point during the melee. They held fast and continued to defend themselves, even as they were slowly overwhelmed. When a strange mist suddenly appeared and all but blinded their enemies, they ran.
Húrin acknowledged that they very well could have died there, and that it was but a stroke of good fortune that they escaped. Wearily he and his young brother wandered, quickly becoming lost, despite their best efforts. Again he considered the possibility that death would be their lot, and again it was in one of those moments that good fortune found them, eagles appearing to whisk them away to safety. Life's scale tipped too far into the 'good' for the teen to be completely at ease, and yet he took it in good stride, enjoying himself, the company of his brother, and the company of the elves of Gondolin for as long as he was able. He was perhaps overconfident, that when the scale tipped back the other way, he would be more than ready to handle it.
He was not.
Their father had been killed a few years after their return from Gondolin. That was it, he decided. That was the scale balancing itself. It was difficult, but he took on his new role as lord, and forced himself to march on. But that had not been it, no. That had been the calm before the storm.
Laughter echoed in his ears, the shadows of little feet and blond hair danced before his eyes. But those laughs, they soon turned to coughs. Coughs soon turned to hacks. Hacks became sobs, and sobs gave way to silence.
He would never be the same after his little Lalaith was taken away. But somewhere inside his heart, he hoped. The scale was so far gone to one side, surely it would soon throw itself into the other extreme?
Everything became a blur after that. Huor, his little brother and what seemed to be the only constant in his world, fell to an arrow in the chaos of battle. He was hauled off the battlefield and into the depths of Angband, to tortures and horrors that no soul should ever bear witness to.
And soon enough, he would get to bear witness to even more tragedy. Whether he wanted to or not.
He didn't.
Their proud people were beaten down to nothing, held in bondage and forced to toil under the foot of an usurper from the East. And his children … those poor children, running amok under the influence of a curse they could never control, no matter how hard they may try. It didn't come as much of a surprise when, after all was lost for them, they forfeited their own lives.
Life was a balance, Húrin once believed. But now, saltwater licking at his knees, bitterness rushing through his veins and replacing the faith he had once, long ago…he cursed the futility of it all, and took a plunge.