Huor
Wind once gentle on my face now threatens to rend the skin from it as the white marble of some immense citadel rushes up to greet my feathered mount. We land soon, in an apparently elvish kingdom whose name the Eagle deigned not even to tell us-not when he and his vassal came to the rescue of my brother and me, not at any point during our flight here.
Yes, our flight here: it was battle before, harsh and relentless; Hurin and I chased it far from Brethil, until the mists of night closed in around us in a country we did not know. We glanced down at the Orcish corpses surrounding us, then glanced up, and there were the Eagles.
We have travelled high, above clouds and the mountains that pierce them and about whose jagged tines they swirl. Little direction save north could we determine, until the Windlords took the dive that put the city now below us in view.
After the ring of mountains, the first thing I had seen had been white walls, layers upon layers of them-seven, I believe I counted, with gates hewn out of their mighty circles. These too we passed over, only to see it: a sprawling argent city amid a vale of green, green grass. That was when we began our current descent.
At this great speed we soon will be landed on a wide balcony, where several armoured sentinels stare up at our approach. Their fine mail and jeweled helms glimmer in the first light of day. The untainted stone draws nearer, nearer. Shall we be shattered upon it?
The Eagle commences a spiral downward that seems to last but moments, then sets its talons down so lightly on the structure that I scarcely perceive we must now disembark.
"What visitors bring you, Lord Thorondor?" A guard jogs up, bowing low before the Eagle as he makes his inquiry. He adds swiftly in an undertone, "You know that the king far from welcomes strangers."
My gaze darts toward my elder brother as my stomach begins to tie itself in knots. A genuine smile is on his lips, but his eyes-blue like mine-reveal concern, even fear. Yet still he slips off from his mount; I do likewise.
The distance between myself and the ground is greater than I had imagined; after hours of flight over towering heights, small distances are all the same. Three feet is indistinguishable from eight. I bend my knees on impact, but still stumble and have to cling to the Eagle – Thorondor, the guard called him – to prevent my falling. I flush. Here I am, fresh from my first battle, a man of thirteen (though my brother, the rascal, would call me child still) unable to withstand a fall. My pride smarts; what would the elves think of me?
However, when I do raise my eyes to meet those of the soldier before me, I find his expression to be one of curiosity, awe even. He looks as if he has never before set eyes upon a mortal.
"Húrin and Huor I bring you, sons of the House of Marach, grandsons of Hador Lórindol, whose name is not unknown here, guard of Gondolin. Unwise indeed would Turgon King be to withhold welcome, for in years past Ulmo has shown his will in this matter."
The awe on the guard's face intensifies, and he looks between us in wonder. To the surprise of both, he bows low to us-as to young lords-and speaks solemnly: "Greetings, my lords, and well met! It is an honour to be the first to welcome you to the Hidden Realm of Gondolin, city of Turgon the King. Thorondor speaks truly; the deeds of the House of Marach are remembered here in song and tale alike. I am Tiraglan of the House of the Harp and if it be permissible, I shall present you to the king."
My eyes wonder in surprise as instinct battles shock to control my immediate reaction; to be welcomed in such a way, as if I was a lord of great renown... Such honours I have never received, neither in my birth-land of Dor-Lómin nor my adoptive home of Brethil. I am a lord in training, nothing more.
If it were not for my brother, I would likely stand in silent surprise until the atmosphere became awkward, and I came to the realisation that I should reply to Tiraglan's welcome with words of my own, not dumb expressions. As it were, Hurin, more trained in the art of masking emotions and formal speaking, steps forward and responds in appropriate decorum.
"My thanks, and those of my brother, to you, Tiraglan of the Harp, for your kind greetings and words. Rumours of the strength and forbearance of the Hidden City has reached the ears of even the remotest of the free peoples of Beleriand, though distance and secrecy have prevented the world from knowing of your hospitable actions and courteous words; and it pleases me that the small deeds of our House are remembered by such great folk. I am Hurin; my brother is Huor; and we would be honoured to be presented to your king, though might I be so bold as to request water and linens? Our recent tryst with Orcs has left us an unsightly pair to present to a king."
Tiraglan bowed once more before replying, "Likewise, it pleases me that our city is held in high esteem by your people. If you would follow me, grandsons of Lórindol, I shall lead you to a chamber where you can wash briefly, though indeed a brief wash is all I can promise. The Lord Turgon will already be aware of your arrival; it would not do to tarry for long. Later, you shall glory in the baths of the city, but for now, let us depart! Farewell, Lord Thorondor, may your plumage never thin!"
At Tiraglan's beckoning, Hurin and I follow the sentinel toward a door engraved with designs of flowers and fountains, apparently leading into some turret of this-Lord Turgon's-citadel. At the solemn beating of thick feathers on the air, I turn to see the Eagles rising yet again into the cobalt sky, myself and Hurin left behind as just one of many tasks and duties-left behind in a strange kingdom of strangers. As we descend a set of stairs, in a stairwell lit by many windows, anxiety finds a place in the pit of my stomach.
I do not fear the elves-indeed, I fear nothing, but especially not a people whom I have always been told are valiant and trustworthy-so the worried ache must be due to excitement, curiosity. Yes, that explains it.
In a matter of minutes, Hurin and I find ourselves in a small water-closet, standing at a long table over which hang two mirrors, elaborately embellished with borders of silver flowers. The doors, now the mirrors: Decoration, I observe, must be how the elves spend their long years. The gem-studded basins beneath the mirrors and the embroidered cloths resting in them but serve to prove my theory.
"Make haste; my lord receives few visitors, and such as he does, he wishes a swift audience with," says Tiraglan, leaving Hurin and I little time to admire the finery as we daub at splotches of dirt and dried blood on our arms and faces. "Wash briefly," indeed.
We are soon guided down a single capacious corridor; intricate mosaics line its white walls from floor to high ceiling, relating tales I do not ever recall having heard. At last the hall culminates in two immense mahogany doors-the only wood I have yet to find in the palace. A sentinel stands beside each, clad, I note, in a rainbow of glimmering hues.
At first glance, they appear somber, dignified and stately as Tiraglan, but as we closer approach them and they reach out to open the doors outward, I notice stifled smiles at play on their lips and laughter sparkling in their eyes. For some reason, the sight makes me unspeakably glad.
"Eiliantirith, Faencrist, two visitors for the Lord King," Tiraglan explains, indicating Hurin and myself. "Thorondor and a vassal carried them into the city but lately; kin of Marach are they, princes of Hador's house." He appears to make eye contact with each of them in turn. "I suggest you treat them with due dignity," he adds, almost scoldingly, to my ears.
"Yes, master," answers the guard on my left, that smile still flirting with his mouth; he and his companion direct their attentions toward my brother and me. "Enter, my lords, into the fair sanctuary of our Lord Turgon. May the Valar bless this your auspicious meeting." He grins, and both men bow, motioning us into what must be the throne room.
"Eiliantirith-" I catch the quiet remark as the doors swing silently shut behind us. "-that was an exquisite impersonation of Lord Glorfindel." Their laughter ushers us into the king's hall.
Before I can contemplate who this Lord Glorfindel might be, or why the guards would want to impersonate him, I take in the sight that was the Great Hall of Gondolin, and all questions are wiped from my mind. Valar Almighty…
The hall stretches on for a distance immeasurable, seemingly almost endless, perhaps one hundred yards from end to end. Marching along that distance, at regular intervals, are columns of a scale of which I have never dreamed, let alone hoped to see. Up they go, yards upon yards, until, at a height of about forty yards, they branch in twain, then again, and again, and again, to reach the cavernous ceiling. They are carved, these spires, and the realization strikes me: they are trees; trees that mimic the grace and glory of the trees of legend, Telperion and Laurelin; carved of white stone they soar straight to the heavens, their many branches supporting the arched ceiling, which must be sixty yards above ground. The ceiling in itself is a marvel; arched and graceful, it seems to be one long river of stone, the joints between the individual blocks carved cunningly to create such an illusion; it looks as if it were carved from one single, vast stone, which flows uninterrupted until-
My mouth drops open as my wonder increases, for there, in the exact center of the awe-inspiring ceiling, is a dome. Twenty yards in diameter, it rises above the ceiling. I am such a distance away that I cannot judge the height it reaches; though by the scale of this monumentous building I judge it will be no less than twenty yards. There must be windows too, hidden somewhere in the artful stonework of the dome, for light pierces through the air. Rays of sunlight, passing through small openings, all meet in one spot: the exact center of the circumference of the rim of the dome; sending rays of light that both illuminate the hall and highlight their destinations. One such ray falls towards the great doors; as such, it illuminates my brother and I, miniscule against the immense size of this hall. Another ray travels across the endless distance in the opposite direction and falls upon the gathered crowd that stood there, below a huge window of a coloured, transparent material – glass, I think with wonder; it's coloured glass.
For a moment, the world is silent, still. Our mortal eyes cannot clearly see the figures we shall soon meet, though their elven eyes should easily perceive us across the distance. I agree with my brother's earlier sentiment; we are a sorry sight to present to the king and his peerage. My fingernail scrapes a patch of dirt on my sleeve; I instantly regret it as flecks of dirt mar the perfect white of the marble floor.
"You are of the House of Marach; remember who you are," my brother whispers into my ear, before striding forward. I hurry to match my pace to his; together we start across the distance. Our footsteps echo around us, vanishing into the cavernous depths; I wonder if the king and his company will hear them. It takes an age to cross the hall. While my brother keeps his gaze ahead, I glance around us, marvelling at the wonders of this hall. It is wide, almost fifty yards across, with many more rows of tree-columns holding the ceilings aloft.
When we pass under the dome in the ceiling, I almost cry out in astonishment and awe; I was correct in my earlier assumption. The dome does not rise twenty yards, nor twenty-five, but thirty glorious yards. The walls of the dome are painted with murals of outstanding beauty; depicting the Valar, royals, figures of legend. I could spend an hour, a day, a week just looking at them.
The gathered crowd are clearly visible now; individual faces stare now on me. They are not a crowd, I realise, but stand carefully in position; the space each person occupies is a political statement. Lesser nobles stand on level with my brother and I, open curiosity in their eyes. Behind them is a raised dais, upon which stand many lords, arrayed in fine clothes. In the centre, flanked by two lower chairs, is a throne. The figure sitting upon it stands: the king of the hidden realm. No other could emit such a presence. His robes are white, flowing from his shoulders to pool around his feet. Around his waist is a belt of gold; upon his head sits a crown embedded with rubies, in his hand he holds a golden sceptre. Turgon, King of Gondolin.
"Who are you, sons of Men, that venture into my realm beyond thought?" The King's voice is level-yet not so much even as flat. His ivory features betray no emotion. The searching light of his eyes-such a Light-falls on me, and for a second's least part, my gaze meets his.
I've seen you before. No, no- I have yet to truly see you... No. But I know something about you. The King is important; his eyes are like stars. It strikes me with the force of a blow.
Yet the thoughts dissipate even as they came; Hurin's strong, clear voice replaces them as my focus of consciousness.
"Hurin am I, and this is my brother, Huor, my lord," announces my brother. "We are the sons of Galdor, son of Hador, of the house of Marach. The Lord Thorondor delivered us from the wilderness into your realm."
Turgon appears to muse on this. Something like anxiety grips me in his silence. What will he make of us, two mortals dropped into the heart of his hidden kingdom? Will we be slain, made prisoners? I glance at the floor, heart throbbing.
"That is well," replies the king, in that same lifeless tone, "for I have reason to look kindly on the Men of your house. Yet the law of this land is that all who enter shall not be permitted to leave, lest our location be betrayed; therefore, I welcome you as guests in my halls."
"Thank you, my lord." Heads bowed, Hurin and I simultaneously exhale our gratitude. Questions formulate somewhere in the back of my mind: what affinity has this lord of the Eldar for our house? Most importantly: why? Yet, for the moment, relief overshadows them.
"You shall dwell in my halls for the days that remain to you," Turgon concludes. The rest of our lives? I scarcely comprehend his words of parting, referencing quarters and a meal with himself and the court.
Surely not, surely not. The firm denial resonates incessantly through my mind as Tiraglan passes Hurin and I over to an Elf who must serve as a butler. He guides us again through the white, white halls. Unending. All the same. They close in around me. I could easily lose myself in these infernal corridors. Yet I fear I shall learn them all too well ere I depart the Circles of this World.
A shiver runs painfully down my spine. The hallways blur together. I glance to Hurin and note tears in his sapphire eyes. "What will Haldir... Mother and Father... think became of us?" I whisper, praying the echoes keep my words from the ears of our guide.
"We are dead to them." I have never heard Hurin sound so bitter.
-o0o-
Rog
The mortal pair depart with one of Lord Turgon's men, back to the great doors and disappearing away down the main thoroughfare. They walk differently; before, they held themselves with pride, though not without a little hesitance. The young one could not contain his wonder at our marvelous hall and his brother's eyes shone with awe – well disguised awe, but awe none the less. Now, their shoulders droop. The elder one again hides hid horror well, but his brother does not. The young one's face crumples like metal under pressure.
The moment the great doors close, Turgon stands. We all watch silently, much as we have done for the past two years. So much depends on this one elf, this damaged elf. He reminds me of a broken hinge; the fate of Gondolin swings on him but we do not know if he can hold to such pressure. The complication that is the two mortals has added yet more strain to the mechanism.
"The council chambers," he instructs emotionlessly, stepping off the dais and turning left, heading to the western wall. Here, hidden well by my crafty masons, lies a secret door, behind which is a hidden stair, leading down to the council chambers which are situated a floor below us. The palace, and indeed much of the city, is laced with such passageways. Known only to the Lords, the Lady Idril (who indeed commissioned many herself) and trusted vassals, they provide an exit should our city be attacked. They lead to the North gate; from there, we must climb the mountainsides.
As one, we follow our lord. My masons had the foresight to build the passage as wide as can still be called discrete; the Lady Idril and Lord Glorfindel, her with flowing skirts, he with robes of extreme panache, could hardly fit through otherwise.
We arrange ourselves around the council table in silence, waiting for Lord Turgon to speak. He stares out over the city, his expression blank. Finally – "Your thoughts, My Lords?"
Lord Maeglin speaks first, to the annoyance of some. He is often seen as arrogant and prideful by others; his youth contrasts with the high regard of the King. I however do not dislike the young smith. He is talented indeed with metals and gemstones; I would wish to tutor him if he were a member of my house.
"Two sons of the second-born, of the House of Marach, brought to our city by eagles! Carried by the Lord Thorondor, no less! Whoever they be, for whatever purpose they come, the Valar smile on them. Lord Thorondor would not bear them were they men of ill-deed or fake valour."
"Indeed, Lord Maeglin," Salgant replies, "though I counsel that we should not receive them so joyfully, nor turn our eyes from the risk they pose. We do not know the circumstances that lead to the eagles bringing them hence! They fought in battle, that itself is clear by their appearance; would I go too far to suggest that they might have been seen by their foes? That those foes might know where our city lies?" He glances around the table, reminding us all of the constant fear of discovery.
"Fought in battle, Lord Salgant?" I speak up, and all eyes turn to me. "They seem overly young to have seen battle, especially the child Huor."
"What do you suggest is the cause for the blood on their clothes? Their wounds? Their armor? Or do you suggest that their attire is the norm for the men of Brethil?" His reply is scathing, which is nothing out of the norm. Salgant has never spoken respectfully to me; his scorn over my past is obvious to all.
"I suggest that we do not know enough about these too youths to pass judgment. We cannot come to any worthwhile decision while the facts are obscure to us. I propose inviting them to a council on the morrow. We should hear their tale, not create one from the bare facts we know," I propose-gratefully-to several nods and verbal affirmations.
"And perhaps, with the correct questions, we shall learn more even as they dine with us," Maeglin puts in. His sharp eyes glisten, and his lips writhe into a singular smile. What is passing through his mind, I cannot fathom-but I trust him, nonetheless. "My Lord Uncle," he elaborates, turning amicably toward the King, "can we expect the meal at its usual hour?"
"Yes," replies Turgon, indicating now those of us who do not reside in the citadel. "Lords, to stay and eat or to return home is of your choosing. All will be laid out at council on the morrow; there is no fear of being left outside our informed circle." His voice reminds me of weary hammer-strokes on some weathered piece of stone, growing fainter and fainter. "For now," he continues, "you are dismissed."
I rise slowly from my seat, turning to ivory-haired Penlod who stands to my left and a head above me. "Will you stay?" I inquire.
"I think not," is the answer. "The Lady expects me for dinner, so I suppose I will learn what there is to know at the meeting tomorrow. But as for yourself...?"
"I believe I shall stay; my curiosity has been piqued, after all. But if a lady were wanting me home, I would be constrained to your same choice, I am sure." I raise an eyebrow and allow myself to smile.
Penlod emits a short laugh. "Good evening then, Rog. Until tomorrow's council?"
"Until then," I answer as he turns away. Glancing about the capacious room, I note that all the court has risen by now and mill about, some members attempting, with calls of "Namarie!" to depart, while others, like myself, seem firmly planted here in the palace.
Idril and the King, I notice, leave us lords to conversation, which I find myself in for the next half-hour or so. Ecthelion, Glorfindel, Salgant, Duilin, Egalmoth, and I are the ones to linger; Galdor, like Penlod, must have more pressing affairs elsewhere-or at least an impatient wife.
Speculations whirl through the air: "Chosen of Ulmo?"; "It seems terribly suspicious"; "Surely Thorondor's vassals would bring us nothing harmful?"; "Not knowingly..."; "Let us not pass judgment"; "But did you see their reactions to the King's law?"; "Too clearly"... But soon enough a pair of maidservants arrive, bidding us come now to the hall of feast.
Our chatter dwindles to whispers, then to silence, as we make our swift way to the hall. These corridors echo far too well for us to conceal our speech. Yet we soon find ourselves in the banquet chamber, a massive room nearly as cavernous as the throne-hall itself. Though upheld to the same great heights by similar tree-etched columns, this chamber is more practical, narrower, less elaborately decorated. The only visible art is vibrant glass mosaics that line the sprawling walls in the shapes of flaming suns, the heraldry of my Lord and his father.
A long, marble table, fixed by design to the floor, bifurcates the majority of the hall's length, but for now only one end of it is set. The King sits at the head, facing our entrance, with his two guests next to one another on his left. Lady Idril is, as ever, on his right; her eyes seem fixed on the younger of the two mortals, as if she should say something but does not.
I soon seat myself next to Maeglin (who has taken in his own turn the open chair next to Idril). I glance across a platter of roast meat to make eye contact with the elder of the mortals; he makes a study of the burn-scars on my hands.
"Did you tell my Lord King your name is Hurin?" My question tears his eyes from the maroon splotches.
"I did, lord," he replies cordially, "though I have not yet made your acquaintance..."
"I am Rog," I answer, as servants place empty plates before us, "of the House of the Hammer."
"That's an interesting name," Huor pipes up, seeming completely unaware of the social faux pas he is committing; his brother, however, and all others in earshot – the entire delegation at the table, in fact – notice. Hurin's eyes squeeze shut; his face becomes one of mingled horror and extreme exasperation; he silently utters a short phrase. I read from his lips: 'Why, for the love Eru, why?'
The soft sound of moving air is heard as the table sucks in a shocked breath, wondering how I will react. My reactions to questions about my past – however innocent the intent may be, however distantly the subjects are related – are varied, ranging from testy to explosive. I dislike the subject.
However, these are guests, Huor is but a child, and besides, he amuses me. "It is my epessë, Lord Huor, my honorific title." If possible, Huor looks even more curious, and opens his mouth, no doubt in order to let a multitude of questions pour out. At this point, however, Hurin has clearly had enough. He places his hand upon his brother's forearm and gives a light squeeze, not a harsh amount of pressure, but enough to gain Huor's attention. He takes one look at his brother's displeased face, flushes crimson, and falls silent.
The table releases its held breath; the flow of conversation, which had ebbed for a few moments, resumes. Ecthelion and Salgant fall into a discussion on the use of modal tonality and dissonance in the composition of laments; Idril coaxes the pink-faced Huor into a conversation regarding his family and life in the woodlands of Brethil; Maeglin, denied his cousin's company, debates the use of intricate decoration in armour with Glorfindel, who, as per usual, remains convinced that extensive ornamentation on a soldier's breastplate is almost as important as the breastplate itself.
King Turgon is as ever, blank-faced and distant from the company. Unusually though, his expression flickers. His lips, usually pressed tight together, make occasional movements. It takes me a long moment to come to the realization that Turgon is smiling; or, at least, coming as close to the act as he has in two years.
I probe Hurin into conversation once more as unspoken custom permits us to begin filling our plates. "I suppose the full story of your coming here will come tomorrow at the King's council..."
The young adan smiles-and takes the bait. "But would I tell you more about it now, my lord?" My nod and motion to continue must signal a yes. "It would be an honour." He takes a wooden bowl of bread from Lord Glorfindel, who is seated next to him, and selects a roll, passing the container to his brother-who takes two.
"Would you care for mead, Lord Hurin?" Glorfindel proffers a sizable flagon in swift succession of the bread.
"No, thank you, lord." He casts a nigh-amused glance toward his younger brother and indicates Huor. "And I speak for the both of us," he adds in a conspiratorial undertone.
Glorfindel laughs, a sound as bright as the golden flower of his House. "And in that case I must commend your prudence." He sets the vessel down where it rested between him and myself. I, as he has, indulge.
The containers of food have soon orbited the table in a neat cycle of take-your-fill-pass-to-the-right; lifting my fork, I pick up the dropped threads of Hurin's and my conversation. I remain intent on hearing the mortals' full tale, and besides, I would rather the topic stay far from inquiries as to my own history.
"You were just beginning to describe your and brother's journey here, were you not?" I say, taking a bite of salad even as I notice Hurin is already finishing his bread. Perhaps conversation is not the finest avenue; he's hungry. Even if the boy took some refreshment after his meeting with Turgon, this must be the first true meal he has had in days.
He swallows. "So I was, lord. We have- had been staying with our uncle, Haldir, in Brethil, and attacks from the Enemy were growing increasingly frequent. Haldir was losing many soldiers-and thus ground, and somehow Huor and I persuaded him to let us accompany a force of men going to meet a party of Orcs, but they found-"
"Where, exactly, was it that your uncle's men were planning to join these glamhoth in battle?" Glorfindel's apple stops halfway to his mouth.
"Near the Vale of Sirion," replies Huor, sounding rather proud to be able to answer. From here he takes up the account.
"We planned to pursue the orcs until they reached the Vale. The valley there is wide and steep; the river below flows quick and deeply. The orcs would have no easy escape. Rather than dare the treacherous valley they decided to face us in battle, which progressed as we had planned.
"Our archers were positioned in the trees; their volleys cut down a large number of the legion." Huor's fingers – thicker and shorter than those belonging to the Eldar – stab through the air like the arrows he described, almost embedding themselves in the butter dish in his enthusiasm.
"The me and Hurin -" ("Hurin and I", hisses Lord Hurin) "– and the other men charged from where we had been waiting in the shadows of the trees. One group of men charged from the left of the orcs, the other from the right, and the orcs were trapped between us, like a piece of metal between a hammer and an anvil. It was glorious! The men tried to keep Hurin and I -"
He shoots a meaningful look at Hurin, which I believe I correctly translates into Sindarin as 'I do know my grammar, thank you very much' "- out of the battle as much as possible, as many of our soldiers think us too young to fight, though I do believe we proved them mistaken. I slew two orcs."
Here, Huor glances around the table, as if looking for expressions of awe. His first two kills must be – in his mind – a huge accomplishment.
"Perhaps we should name you Huor Twice-Kill for your achievement," the Lady Idril interposes.
I would think her serious if not for the twitch of her lips. My approval of the young human increases; like her father, the Lady Idril has ceased smiling completely in the months after Lord Fingolfin's death. Perhaps the wisdom of Lord Thorondor has brought these mortals to our city to aid the healing of our beloved royals; the light-heartedness of young Huor especially seems to make the shroud of grief that covers this city dissipate.
Hurin, now slicing his roasted goose in slow, practiced movements, picks up the tale from where Huor has paused. "However, the tide of the battle soon changed. The proximity to the cliff edge had whipped the beasts into a panicked frenzy and they fought with energy and vigour which we had not foreseen. By this point, the fighting covered a large area; Huor and I were separated from our caretakers by a group of orcs and we stood alone. We did not fear for our lives, however, for we had been briefed many times on how we should behave if such an occasion arose."
Hurin pauses momentarily to swallow another mouthful of meat. The interruption to the tale has us all lean forwards involuntarily towards him. He continues, "We began to make our way down the side of the valley, for in truth, the Vales are not as steep as they seem from above, nor as impassable. The process took several hours, as the distance was great and the terrain was both unfamiliar and dangerous; a fall could leave a man with a broken leg, or worse. Once we reached the valley floor, our path turned southwards. Our goal was to journey several leagues south, before turning west and aiming for Amon Obel, where we would be reunited with our company."
"What might Amon Obel be, Lord Hurin?" Egalmoth questions.
"The only distinguishable landmark in Brethil; a hill that rises higher than the surrounding ground by many hundreds of feet; whereupon lies our principal settlement," Hurin replies, with a nod to Egalmoth, before continuing.
"However, after no more than half a league, a mist developed in the valley. Such a mist I have never seen, nor do I expect to see again. Thick and oppressing, it made visibility perhaps a foot on either side. We pressed on, though, wanting to put as much distance between ourselves and the battle as possible, hoping that in time the fog would pass and we would be able to discover our whereabouts. We journeyed for what seemed like days; the mist let through dim light that varied little: I could tell you not for how long we travelled.
"Several times we came close to losing our footing and causing ourselves harm. Finally, the mist started to dissipate, and our hopes began to rise. They soon fell when we realised our surroundings; instead of travelling south, as I had assumed, we had been travelling north! We were leagues out of our way, Brethil only a green blur in the distance, and mountains we had seen from afar now rising before us."
Glorfindel places the core of his apple back on his plate. I cast a swift glance toward Turgon; he tamely sips a glass of wine, forward-leaning posture suggesting engagement with the tale. "Continue, please," is his simple command.
Huor clears his throat. "We had scarcely been there long when at once a pair of golden Eagles emerged from the fog. I do not know what we would have done had they not arrived! They promised to take us safety; we knew they were servants of Manwe, and we were in such a desperate plight, so we boarded their backs.
"It was a long flight," he goes on, "nearly two days, and we saw nothing of our path save a few mountaintops stretching up to prick the clouds and mists. We were set down just today on the balcony of this palace... and that is the end of it."
A ruminative silence briefly reigns across the table, Huor's last words bouncing poignantly off the hall's cavernous ceiling. A strange tale is the mortals', to be sure- unbelievable, if not for the evidence of the Windlords.
"Thus your arrival here was entirely by chance?" Salgant speaks up from further down the table, his tone dripping with the spiced wine of skepticism (and no scant amount of literal wine, either).
Turgon speaks ere Hurin or Huor can respond. "So it would seem." It is more of a musing than an answer. "Yet a pleasant chance, I deem it, for us all." He pauses a moment, yet neither adan makes to reply. "I thank you for your tale. From what I have heard, it will not be difficult for either of you to find a place in this realm."
"Thank you, lord." Hurin appears to swallow, suppressing some other, less courteous response.
"Thank you," Huor echoes him. Memory hearkens back to the mortals' expressions in the throne room; the only thing they see is an eternity spent within these confines. Yet do not we all?
The dinner lasts little longer, at least for me. I take my night's leave with Ecthelion, when the king and his young guests do, leaving the other lords to the drinking and revelry never far from our gatherings together. Weaving my way through the white halls, lit orange by flickering lamps mounted high upon them, I emerge into the night and turn toward home.