#the wanderings of húrin

[outofangband]

Just so everyone is aware, while I was making my lighthearted post about The Wanderings of Húrin about words , I got distracted while searching for the page numbers and reread the part where Húrin breaks down about Morwen in court

“Long she sat in your land, without fire, without food, without pity, now she is dead. She was Morwen, my wife. Morwen Eledhwen, the lady elven fair who bore Túrin the slayer of Glaurung. She is dead.”

Will add more later in the way of analyzing but this might be one of the most devastating moments in the Wanderings to me; Húrin says this in chains, in front of a court who are at this point likely to vote for his execution, and the image he paints is just so relentlessly bleak

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

Imagine living in Brethil during the events of the Children of Húrin and the Wanderings of Húrin. Some day a random bloke turns up with a spooky sword and a mysterious past, not too weird but still not everyday. Then he finds a weird girl in the forest with no memories of her past. Naturally the two grow close and eventually marry. Brethil's own semi-tamed cryptid couple. The orcs start coming thick and fast and Turambar helps repel them, but then a dragon decides "fuck this village in particular" and comes to kill everyone. Turambar basically coups Brandir the old chieftain almost by accident. Turambar kills the dragon, but it turns out Níniel was also Nienor, and Turambar was also Túrin. They were brother and sister! Turambar kills Brandir and then himself. Dorlas is later found mysteriously dead with Brandir's sword beside him. Hunthor and Nienor's bodies are never recovered.

Just when everything seems to be settling down, their father Húrin turns up who was supposed to be dead or imprisoned in hell. He attacks the new chieftain, is put on trial and then causes a civil war before mysteriously disappearing again.

How would you even deal with that? Just existing on the edge of the grand Hadorian drama that suddenly comes barreling through your life and just when you think it's done it returns to burn your house down.

[cuthalions]

Never once as they wandered together on long and grievous paths did Túrin speak, and he walked as one without wish or purpose, while the year waned and winter drew on over the northern lands. But Gwindor was ever beside him to guard him and guide him; and thus they passed westward over Sirion and came at length to the Beautiful Mere and Eithel Ivrin, the springs whence Narog rose beneath the Mountains of Shadow. There Gwindor spoke to Túrin, saying: 'Awake, Túrin son of Húrin! On Ivrin's lake is endless laughter. She is fed from crystal fountains unfailing, and guarded from defilement by Ulmo, Lord of Waters, who wrought her beauty in ancient days.' Then Túrin knelt and drank from that water; and suddenly he cast himself down, and his tears were unloosed at last, and he was healed of his madness.

— THE CHILDREN OF HÚRIN, CHAPTER IX: THE DEATH OF BELEG

[swanmaids]

At night, Turgon still walked with Finrod in dreams. 

In the waking hours he never intended to do it; in fact, he promised himself he would not. Gondolin’s secrecy was the knife edge upon which the whole city lived; he could not risk breaking it, even inadvertently, by opening his mind to one beyond the city walls — even the one who was his dearest friend, and perhaps more than his friend. He had left Finrod, he had made his choice. In the daylight, he kept his mind locked and bolted. 

Still when he slept he never could keep his unguarded mind from wandering, and merging with his cousin’s. 

Finrod’s dreams were sometimes strange, and often very beautiful. Long before Húrin and Huor flew to Gondolin on eagle’s wings, Turgon saw the Secondborn through Finrod’s eyes, and felt the warmth of his love for them. He saw too the dwarves at their work as they delved beneath the earth to build Finrod’s kingdom, and his cousin’s joy as he received his name in their unfamiliar tongue. He walked in halls of crystal that lit up from within, waded in sweltering, steaming underground baths. Sometimes the dreams were more abstract, and he saw rivers that sung with the spirits of the world, and great nests of writhing, many-coloured snakes like moving jewels. 

It had happened on occasion that he met his own form, and Finrod’s, in Finrod’s dreams. Seeing Finrod’s version of himself was a little like looking into a false mirror – and these dreams were always embarrassingly intimate. Turgon would see their dream-selves in all manner of intimate embraces; most of which they had never attempted, as they had only lain together twice and both times in grief and guilt, and wake up flushed all over. 

He fell into Finrod’s nightmares at times too. While his memories of long frigid marches and kin fighting kin were hardly pleasant, and Turgon certainly did not relish the thought of Finrod troubled and afraid, he still preferred them over his own nightmares. Elenwë’s fall. Idril’s anguish. He wondered if Finrod could ever enter his dreams, and hoped that he could not.

A man can become used to almost anything. Over the decades, sharing Finrod’s dreams became something that Turgon expected, even accepted. There was in some ways almost an innocence about it – it made him think of their long-ago boyhood in Tirion, speaking through their minds where no grown-ups could hear them. 

Perhaps it was just as well that he gave up trying to fight their nighttime connection. He did not quite realise how much he would miss Finrod’s dreams in all their guises; before they one day stopped, and never reached him again.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I’m quite behind the times with Silmarillion Daily, but I wanted to comment on Thingol’s statement to the Noldor:

“In Hithlum the Noldor have leave to dwell, and in the highlands of Dorthonion, and in the lands east of Doriath that are empty and wild; but elsewhere there are many of my people, and I would not have them restrained of their freedom, still less ousted from their homes. Beware therefore how you princes of the West bear yourselves; for I am Lord of Beleriand, and all who seek to dwell there shall hear my word.”

This doesn’t go over well with the Noldor, or with parts of fandom, but I think that it’s reasonable when placed in the context of the lifestyles of the Sindar and the Noldor.

The Sindar are - I don’t think ‘nomadic’ is the right word, but they live where they like, when they like, and they’re not much given to building cities. Even when the orcs begin returning and Thingol and Melian have Menegroth built as a stronghold and a palace, the bulk of the elves don’t live there. Even Thingol and Melian spend their summers in the forest (from the Narn i Hîn Húrin: Thingol was abroad in the greenwood with Melian, as was his delight in times of high summer). In the Silm, during the period of the Siege of Angband, it says: some of the Grey-elves still wandered far and wide without settled abode, and they sang as they went. The ‘still’ suggests that was their typical mode of life before the return of Morgoth and the arrival of the Noldor.

The Noldor, in contrast, are city people. The first thing they do when they arrive in Valinor is build a city, Tirion; and they stay in that city throughout their time in Valinor, whereas the Vanyar later disperse. When the Teleri arrive, the Noldor build them a city.

These two lifestyles don’t meld well, not for non-city people, and especially not when the city people think they should be the ones calling the shots. If you spend your time in a lot of places, you’re liable to come back to a place that you love and visit every couple years and find that the city people have built a town or city on it. It’s theirs now; what are you doing here? Clearly you weren’t using it. And okay, you can stay, but you have to play by our rules; we’re civilized here, after all. So Thingol’s fears of his people being “restrained of their freedom or ousted from their homes” by the Noldor are warranted, and his restriction that they can’t settle in areas where there are many Sindar is reasonable.

Secondly, Thingol’s kingship of Beleriand is a very loose one. Círdan and, prior to the First Battle, Denethor acknowledge his kindship but had pretty much full autonomy over what they did. Another indication of this loose style of kingship is Thingol’s attitude towards Finrod, apparently the only one of the princes of the Noldor to acknowledge his kingship: he lets Finrod have a substantial realm in West Beleriand, and Finrod is in effect holding it as a liegeman of Thingol rather than (or in addition to; Finrod’s got a very neat balancing act going on here) of Fingolfin, and therefore he’s going to treat/regard the Sindar in a way that’s compatible with that and respectful of their lifestyle. Finrod is the only one who consults with Thingol on the matter of the Edain when they arrive, and this matters to Thingol even though he and Finrod have very widely differing attitudes to the Edain. Just the fact that Finrod treats Thingol’s views as meaningful and relevant does a lot for better relations.

Basically, Thingol has been ruling Beleriand for many centuries, and all he’s asking for is a baseline level of respect for that. And the Fëanoreans and Fingolfinians aren’t willing to give him even that; they aren’t willing to regard anything other than Doriath as legitimately his kingdom, even though, if they had, it would have minimally affected anything they did (at least prior to the revelation of the Kinslaying) and made for much smoother relations. Because one of their motivations for coming to Middle-earth is pride, and they want realms, not just a place to live; to say of their territories, ‘these are ours, and no one else has any say in what we do’. They weren’t even willing to be answerable to the Valar in Valinor; still less to Thingol in Beleriand.

[milkywaystarboy]

tagged by @serregon foe the 5 character meme

no pressure tagging @eemamminy-art @acreaturecalledgreed @testicularmanslaughtrr @headphone-cat

[seaside-wanderer]

Not every Elf knows another, that's for sure. However, some Elves are so adept at flying under the radars, or keeping to themselves, or just being a regular of their kind when compared to their more reckless kin, that no one ever heard of them.

Aeargail, or Arátya Alcariénen, is one of these. Some say he just came into being out of thin air, others that he's the heir of a certain High King... The truth is, most often, boring. He is just an Elf. He performed some great deeds in ages past, but virtually everyone did at some point.

Born in First Age 454 in Nargothrond, right before the Battle of Sudden Flames, some speculate he is the twin of Ereinion Gil-galad; his hair is, however, golden, though still betrays his ties with the House Of Finarfin. The speculation of a noble descendance was enough to get him, too, to safety under Círdan the Shipwright in the Havens of the Falas. His love for wandering brought him, still a child, in Gondolin, through that same path that Húrin would follow some years later. There, he abided by the rules of the White City, and he was taken under the wing of High King Turgon and adopted into the House of Fingolfin.

He fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears in FA 472 as a Gondolindrim and watched his city burn. He fought again in the War of Wrath at Finarfin's command, saw the fall of the Thangorodrim in the distance, breathed a sigh of relief at the slaying of Ancalagon the Black, and once again followed Círdan, this time in Lindon, all that remained of his beloved Beleriand. He fought at the Battle of Dagorlad in Second Age 3434 and was terribly wounded, but got out alive, rescued by Lord Elrond of Imladris, and then had to take a very long rest to fully heal. Recovered, he woke up an Age and almost three millennia later, ready to fight again in the Siege of Barad-dûr, only to discover all his friends were long dead, including Gil-galad.

His life outside of the battlefield is a blur. Living so long does that.

From time to time he finds himself longing for his companions, fallen in the War or in this or that Battle, knowing very well that his time has not come yet. He has so much to do. So much to tell the world. So, in these moments, he starts singing: songs of the sea, of his lost friends, of the tales of the Noldor and the Teleri, and the Vanyar, and his Houses, and sometimes raises a glass to his brother and king.

He comes and goes as he pleases, never lingering in a place too long. He remains unmarried and generally un-partnered, preferring a life at sea instead, the Unquiet of Ulmo accompanying him since birth. If he stops anywhere at all, he holds Imladris dear, and will often look for his companion Glorfindel and manage to get a few words about Gondolin out of him. If his friend becomes sorrowful after, he will offer him a drink and a shanty while admiring the beauty of the valley at dusk.

When the sun sets and the sky goes a pale orange, he watches his reflection in the waters of the Bruinen, and sees so much of Finarfin in the way his hair flare golden. And when it gets dark, and all around him is bathed in moonlight and the star of Eärendil is right above him, a few threads of silver here and there are the telltale sign of his undying kinship with Turgon and the House of Fingolfin, and he can't help but stare at the statue of Gil-galad right in front of Elrond's house, and will be gone by dusk.

[sallysavestheday]

If you’re currently taking prompts, would love to see your take on Húrin and Humor in Gondolin and Glorthelion’s reaction to them!

Thank you for the ask, @celegormworm! Here are my favorite boys, and that strange new thing called Men. Also on AO3.

Glorfindel has never met a Man. He has no idea what to expect when word comes of the Eagles’ descent, of the golden children, deposited in Gondolin like so much wind-blown dandelion down.

Fireflies! he laughs under his breath to Ecthelion as the wide-eyed youths are introduced at Turgon’s council meeting. They are like sparks, struck from the crackling flint. Here in a flash, then gone.

They fascinate him: so young, and yet so old. Húrin fights like a warrior at an age when a child of their own people would still be clinging to his father’s belt, wandering curiously from farm to forge. Huor’s bony shoulders nearly match Glorfindel's in height, if not in fullness, when he should by rights be dandled on his elders' knees, tossed overhead to summon laughter, offered sweets and trinkets and songs. What a strange, swift passage through the world they make: a few seasons only, even when their lives are long.

Glorfindel finds himself seeking them out, offering himself as host and guide. Their three bright heads can be seen together in the market, at the barracks, in the concert halls. One day they are flying kites from the roof of the House of the Golden Flower, the next bruised and black-eyed and grinning from a round in the yard.

Ecthelion teases, kissing Glorfindel’s split lip – too slow for a child, Fin? – but the urge to mean something to these quick, bright lights is overwhelming. Strange currents swell and ebb in Glorfindel's dreaming: Turgon’s eyes, Huor’s crooked grin, another hidden valley, stars.

He would keep them, if the choice were his. But all that short year they both settle and yearn. They are keen and eager, close in Turgon’s affection as in Glorfindel’s, as in the hearts of all, in truth, save Maeglin, suspicious and cold. But Gondolin moves too slowly for their mortal pulses, and they know it. When the seasons turn again, Húrin pleads to be released, promising silence, loyalty, love.

They depart as softly as they came, wing-borne, grinning, already looking toward home.

They will not meet again; their paths will only cross at a distance on the most terrible of battlefields. But Glorfindel sees an echo of those quick hearts, those bright spirits, that courage in Tuor, and Eärendil, and Elrond, and then in every son of Rivendell, born and fostered.

Splashing in the Bruinen with Elladan and Elrohir, stealing pastries from the pantry with Aragorn, he remembers Ecthelion’s tender puzzlement: You’ve made your heart a garden for Men, sweet Flower. Glorfindel reaches down the fine thread that still binds him to his soul’s other half and grins. Ai, Thel! If only you could see how they’ve grown.

[tolkien-feels]

Not STRICTLY related to your last post but this was part of my meme series on The Wanderings of Húrin

-@outofangband

@outofangband A+ meme, and I'm also very amused that you have a whole meme series on The Wanderings, I need to check it out

[outofangband]

one of the most shocking things about The Wanderings of Húrin is that I learned that the word “drugged” and “shrugged” are not anachronistic to Tolkien-esque writing as both appear in The Wanderings…

(Drugged in the context of “drugged food” that had been dosed with a sleeping draught)

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

Aerin and Morwen and Húrin and Maedhros for the character game

-@outofangband

I adore her. Her story really stuck with me when I first read CoH for how realistic it is for women during an occupation like that of Dor-lómin.

I like that Túrin isn't really presented as her rescuer. She's probably very glad on an emotional level to see Brodda dead but she is very clear it was reckless and that Túrin helped seal her fate. Her setting alight the house is a really powerful image of rage, and revengeful destruction. The quote "and patience will break at the last" symbolises to me this as a last act of anger against those who have oppressed her for so long.

She's my Desolation coded girl - full of destroyed potential and hopeless fire.

One of my all time favourite Silm characters!! Ahh I love her. A lot of her life post Nirnaeth is slow suffering on the knife edge of death. I think so much about how traumatising it is to live for years knowing your death could come at any time but not being sure when or how. And the contrast with the Bragollach which suddenly destroyed her home and a lot of her family and friends...

She's 100% autistic and definitely struggled with having to learn the different social customs and norms of the Hadorians and then the Doriathrim.

Also when Túrin asks her "how will you find me, lost in the wild?" !!! The way it echoes what happens to her 😭

He's the best. His relationship with the Nolofinweans is so interesting. Like he's been to Gondolin! And then he's Fingon’s friend. There's so many possibilities there!

The words he speaks to Morgoth are badass.

His relationship with each of his children makes me insane. His visceral grief at Lalaith's death, how understanding he is to Túrin, the fact he and Nienor, who he has never met but is said to be so similar to him in personality and appearance, die the same way...

He does obviously do a few things wrong, and I haven't actually read the Wanderings, but I do fall on the side of he was very traumatised and Morgoth's influence, which is that of a Valar, is going to be incredibly hard to shake off.

He is everyone's blorbo for good reason. I love that one of the main generals and rulers of the first age is someone who experienced long term captivity and torture and is disabled because of it. Regardless of his eventual moral fall, it's really cool he is such a strong, strategic but traumatised character.

He is so full of parallels I'm thinking about constantly. Twice he is present for an evil event but tries to take some moral stance against it, which fails to actually change the awfulness. He refuses to burn the ships, and they still get burnt, he tries to save Elurín & Eluréd, and he fails. It's like he both can't help himself from ending up in the middle of the act, but he also can't help himself from trying to do something to stop it, always when it is too late.

[cuthalions]

‘Whence are you, and what news would you have?’ 'There was a lady called Morwen,' answered Túrin, 'and long ago I lived in her house. Thither after far wandering I came to seek welcome, but neither fire nor folk are there now.' 'Nor have been this long year and more,' answered the old man. 'But scant were both fire and folk in that house since the deadly war; for she was of the old people - as doubtless you know, the widow of our lord, Húrin Galdor's son. They dared not touch her, though, for they feared her; proud and fair as a queen, before sorrow marred her. Witchwife they called her, and shunned her. Witchwife: it is but "elf-friend" in the new language.

— THE CHILDREN OF HÚRIN, CHAPTER XII: THE RETURN OF TÚRIN TO DOR-LÓMIN

[maya-tl]

"Keep fighting." Beleg

Days of peace never last.

This was the lesson that Beleg was taught on the eve of the coming of Orcs into their lands. The foul creatures swarmed in rivers over the Blue Mountains and infested their forests and defiled their rivers, and in those days the Elves of Eglador and the Dwarves of Belegost who did not suffer evil to pass through their home bore arms for the first time.

When the people of Denethor sought refuge from the Orcs among their western kin, Thingol welcomed them and was glad, and so great strength of arms arose in Beleriand and drove the Orcs away, and for a while peace returned.

Yet Beleg looked ever to the West with shadowed eyed and a heavy heart, though he knew not why, and in his wariness he put aside sword and spear and took again to archery, which he had mastered in his days of hunting.

His skill with the bow became unmatched. A fire ignited in his breast, and it drove him ever to the North in pursuit of wandering Orcs and other creatures of darkness, and seeing this Thingol was pleased. Beleg was gifted a bow of wondrously fine make and an arrow that always hit true and broke never, and these he named Belthronding and Dailir.

Cúthalion, he was called from then on, Strongbow, and he rose to fame among the captains of Thingol for his swiftness and loyalty.

Yet days of peace never last.

And when the Great Enemy came from the West and brought ruin and horror upon them, the fire in the heart of Beleg grew to a roar, and he led the Marchwardens of Doriath often into battle.

No enemy shall step foot within our lands so long as our borders are under your protection, Mablung would tell him proudly, Keep fighting, Cúthalion.

And so Beleg fought. He fought for the safety of his people, kin and friends and loved ones, for his king and queen who ruled them well, for that which had been his home since birth. He fought for freedom and for revenge, and his bow sung with dark pleasure as he wielded it, and his arrow rejoiced as it sunk into the flesh of his enemies.

He laughed and sung and danced still, in the halls of Menegroth during the Feast of Starlight, and great joy there was behind the impenetrable enchantments of Melian Queen of Doriath at times when the movement of the Enemy seemed but a distant thought; yet the shadow ever lengthened over the eyes of Beleg, and the gaze of Melian who was blessed with foresight rested heavily upon him.

Keep fighting, he thought as the peoples of Beleriand gathered before the Pools of Ivrin in merriment and Mablung departed to attend the feast, leaving commandment of all the Marchwardens in the hands of Beleg.

Keep fighting, he thought as the dark deeds of the Noldor were brought to light and the borders of Doriath were fenced against them, and the wrath of Thingol at the slaying of his kin spread among his subjects like fire.

Keep fighting, he thought as the defences of the North grew less vigilant through the years and the might of Morgoth ever greater until the Siege of Angband was broken and ruin befell them.

Keep fighting, he thought as Lúthien Princess of Doriath defied the will of her father and stole away into the North alongside Beren her lover, and brought upon Doriath the ire of Carcharoth and the tragedy of the Hunting of The Wolf.

Keep fighting, he thought as he joined the Union of Maedhros son of Fëanor and beheld there the utter decimation of the armies of the Noldor and the bitter death of all hope in the wake of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.

Beleg fought his way through strife and peace, through dark times and bright ones alike. He took under his wing Túrin son of Húrin, fosterling of his king Thingol, and loved him well, and taught him the way of the bow and the sword—and he followed him into exile and fought alongside him, and Melian looked on him in sorrow at his leaving.

For Beleg fought and fought and kept fighting, and for his loyalty and devotion and his great love he came beneath the Doom of Morgoth.

And long after shadow and wariness had hardened him and Doom had fallen on him, came at last the fated day when Beleg Cúthalion fought no more.

*

Send me a quote and I'll write a short snippet around it! Remember to include the characters you want me to write for!

[serregon]

your favorite part of canon that everyone else ignores

the wanderings of Húrin. grief and wrath! grief and wrath!! grief carving a destructive path through all you touch!! but it’s about old humans and not prettyboy elves you can ship with their cousins so the fandom ignores it

[bretwalda-lamnguin]

In the BoLT version, the Wanderings stuff doesn’t really happen in the same way but it says that Húrin and Morwen (Úrin and Maevwin) haunt the forest outside Doriath, mourning their children

-@outofangband

Yeah, BoLT is very different to the later drafts, that's part of why I love it, there are so many possibilities for the story to have gone in different directions! The root of the Wanderings of Húrin do seem to be there with the Nauglafring, and I still think that would be pretty horrifying for Túrin and Nienor knowing their parents are still haunting the forest looking for them, even as they've finally found peace in Valinor. The bath of flame deification is such a weird scene honestly, I can see why it was dropped, it does remove a lot of the tragedy of the ending if Túrin and Nienor get to be happy together (as actual gods!) in spite of their suicide, without having to worry too much about incest. But I admit I still love it (they deserve nice things!), and I do think there is a good element of tragedy in Túrin and Nienor almost trading places with Húrin (and Morwen to a lesser extent), watching the other in horror but unable to do anything about it.

[tolkiens-middleearth]

Good afternoon to thee, fair scholar and frend. A great need in me has arisen to ask ye - how many times have ye need. spend, diligently scrolling through the tomes of J.R.R.T the Great? Your efforts to make sense of the canonical texts, along with all you remember - it is to me amarvel.

Good afternoon to you as well, and thank you for your kind words.

There is no counting of times when it comes to reading Tolkien's work for me – it's more of a constant process. There are many different texts to read, and after having read them once I rarely go back to read the publications in their entirety again, except for novels like The Lord of the Rings or single narratives like Aldarion and Erendis or The Wanderings of Húrin.

For everything else I just read bits and parts of it – various versions of the same part of a story or topic. This means collecting all (to me) available books and texts and then going through each of them to find what they have to say about topic x, followed by a re-read on how the texts relate to each other.

And to be honest, I don't remember all that much, before writing any longer text on anything Tolkien I have to do a lot of research. Mostly I try to keep in mind where all the different parts of the stories are told and where Tolkien discusses what topic – looking up stuff is easy if you know where to check. I'm not as successful as I'd like to be with this, and at times English not being my native tongue is also slowing me down. It's also very time-consuming, which I didn't have in the last weeks/months, unfortunately. 🥲