Part 4 Of Tuor

Rian was only a child when she was orphaned and taken in by the House of Hador. She was once one of the privileged daughters of the Edain, the noblest of Men. Her father was Baragund, one of Barahir’s nephews, and he was one of the twelve companions of Barahir that were all later slaughtered as they slept, all save his son Beren. When Dorthonion was overrun by Morgoth, Barahir the lord of her house had wisely sent away the women and children days before, sparing them of the sack of Ladros. However, he could spare few warriors to guard them upon the road. In truth the only proper guardians they had was his wife Emeldir, a shield maiden, and green boys. Emeldir boldly led them forth with the goal to seek their allies the Elves in Nargothrond. But they were waylaid by a band of Orcs, stragglers from the main regiment with the sole purpose of raiding and burning whatever the Men of the Edain owned. The Orcs intended to drag the women and children back to Angband as thralls. But it was the House of Hador, another powerful branch of Edain, that intervened.
Húrin and his brother Huor came upon the captives and the Orcs by chance and were outnumbered. They had simply been in the area clearing out wolves. Realizing these Orcs were not common brigands and that they had hostages, they scrambled to rescue them. They could not be swift enough. The Orcs always killed their captives rather than allowed them to be freed. Rian’s mother was slain by the Orcs, as well as the Lady Emeldir and most of the women of Bëor. Of Beor’s direct descendants, only her cousin Morwen and herself remained.
The refugees had nowhere to go. Some returned to Dorthonion, hoping some of the men had survived or that their homes were not burnt. Some went to Nargothrond. Most were welcomed by the House of Hador and went to Dor-lomin or Brethil. As for Morwen and Rian, it was only fitting that they be matched in marriage to Húrin and Huor both to preserve the blood of Bëor and to protect them.
Morwen was already a young woman, and her heart turned to Húrin the moment he rescued her. They were about to slit her throat when he came from behind and put his dirk in the Orc’s skull. When his eyes met hers, he was stunned for a moment, forgetting the cries of war about him. She was the fairest of women but had such sad eyes. After the battle was over he sought her out to make sure she was safe, her eyes haunted him so. She was strong, and at times her strength made her seem icy and cold. She also lost her father Belegund and her mother. When she was with Húrin, however, she felt safe and less guarded. She was grateful to him, and when they were properly introduced, it seemed only right that they should wed and they married soon after. She bore him a son within a year that would become Túrin the Dragon slayer, and a daughter named Urwen who never lived past her third year.
Rian was another matter though. She was still very young, too young to be wed immediately. Indeed Húrin did not know what to do with her for a long while. He allowed her to dwell in Dor-lomin, deciding the matter could wait until she came of age. It was Hour that decided to hasten the wedding. Even though she was only fifteen at the time, he felt it was his duty to protect her. He also had a strange feeling that he must wed soon. He was a stranger to her, for he always seemed to be gone from Dor-lomin. It was rumored he had more dealings with the Elves than his brother, especially after Húrin wed and settled down with his family. Even though Huor was the younger brother, he was still almost twice her age. No one really asked what she wanted. Even if they had, she would not have known how to reply. She always felt awkward and out of place. She wished she was like her cousin Morwen and envied her that she already had two children.
“The boy looks just like you,” she said to her cousin. “But Urwen is more like her father.”
Instead of the house of Hador’s usual gold, Túrin had a head of ebony after the fashion of Bëor. Morwen herself had chestnut brown hair. The babe also had her gray eyes and like her was often silent and rarely cried. Rian had wept every night since she left Ladros. Morwen had never shed a tear, neither did she laugh or smile. Sometimes Rian thought she was made of stone. Urwen had hair yellow as the water lilies in the pools about Dor-lomin, and she was a happy child. She was always laughing and smiling. Her eyes were blue, and she was everyone’s favorite child.
“Urwen is ill with the strange sickness that has been killing the children,” Morwen said. “I fear that I might lose her.”
“If the Valar are willing, she will be spared. They want me to wed Huor,” she sighed. “If I have children, yours and mine will be cousins in the first and second degree. I hope he likes me. I hope my children will be healthy. I hope he is a good father. I hope he is handsome.”
She threatened to weep again. Morwen only stared for a long while, betraying nothing. Rian was young, but she was annoyed that a Lady of the Edain would be so frightened and timid.
“Húrin is gentle enough to me. You are young and pretty, and if Huor is like his brother, you should do well for yourself. Even so, handsome or not, young or old, cruel or kind, it is your lot. His too. You must be strong now for the sake of whatever children you are destined to bear. I suggest you be hasty. Our husbands are eve prepared for war and death.”
With that advice Morwen left her to her fate. Rian awaited the arrival of her groom anxiously. At last, he rode toward her upon his horse. He was a man of Hador in truth. He was tall, broad, and blond. At twenty-five he was also a grizzled veteran of war. She feared him at first. He looked quite stern in his armor and looked upon her, not quite sure what to do. She was trembling.
“Are you cold, milady?” he asked.
“A little,” she replied.
He stooped in his saddle and wrapped his own cloak about her. Even this small gesture of kindness helped ease the tension. She realized he must be nervous too. Húrin had wooed Morwen, but Huor and Rian’s coupling had been arranged.
“Am I to dwell with you in Dor-lomin, my lord?” she asked.
“If you are willing,” Huor answered. “Though our kin demands we wed, I will do nothing against your will.”
She loved him for that alone. When he offered his hand, she took it, and a strange sensation crawled up her arm. He pulled her into his saddle and brought her to his house. Huor kept his promise. He did nothing she did not want and was gentle and affectionate. His house was grand like his brother’s. She was of the mighty House of Bëor, but of a lesser branch. Huor and his brother were the high lords of the House of Hador, younger but just as great as the House of Bëor, especially since it was all but diminished now. Rian’s status had skyrocketed from rather humble origin. It seemed a great weight had been put on her shoulders and she was not like Morwen.
Huor managed to comfort her for a while. She grew to love him, even though she thought she had become incapable of it. Morwen’s daughter did indeed succumb to the strange plague. Rian wept for her and all the little children that had been lost. There had been so few to begin with after the fall of Dorthonion. She wept for her father and mother, for herself. Huor kissed her and promised that they would have their own family soon. She did not need to feel alone anymore. She wanted to believe him so badly. But she was a bride no more than two months. Huor and his brother marched to the Nirnaeth, one of the great battles, and she heard no word of him again. She became distraught and determined she would find him. She left against all logic and reasoning and wandered into the wild. She did not want to lose what she had gained.
After searching for days, she became lost, cold, and weak. There was no sign of Huor. How could there be? Fortune was not so kind. She realized what a fool she had been. No doubt Morwen would tell her children that their aunt had gone mad and perished in the woods. She lost hope and curled up into the hollow trunk of a tree and slept. But it seemed fortune was not without mercy. Elves were traveling through the forest. Their leader was Annael, and his people dwelt in the mountains westward of Lake Mithrim. He had led a small band there to hunt and came by Rian by accident.
He called to the others immediately, “A young girl. She must be lost.”
“Who is she?” the others became quite curious. “Wake her and see!”
But one brushed her hair from her face and frowned. “She is one of the daughters of Men. If you take her, her whole hive will misunderstand and kill every last one of us. She would be nothing but a burden anyway. Leave her! Death is her Gift, let her enjoy it!”
“I did not realize you knew Orc speech,” Annael said darkly. “Woman or She-Elf, she needs assistance. Two hearts beat here.”
“She is with child!”
That was enough for the rest of the company. The Eldar never turned away little ones and were compassionate people. Moreover, none of them had seen a human baby. They lifed her up and began to carry her, chatting excitedly. Their former opponent did not gainsay them. He too was curious but would not admit it.
“With child, eh?” he said grudgingly. “Intensive care. It leaves us with another mouth to feed.”
There were no more complaints after that. They brought Rian to their dwelling. When she awoke to find herself in a strange place, she gasped. At the sight of their fair faces, she was instantly relieved. She had never seen Elves before, but they had done much for her kin. They gathered about her inquisitively.
“What is your name?” Annael spoke the Silvan tongue.
Rian blushed. While many of Bëor’s house had learned Quenya and the other elf languages, she knew only a few words and shook her head. Annael understood and spoke the common tongue.
“Who are you?”
“Rian of the houses Hador and Bëor.”
“Both houses are Edain. I am honored. My name is Annael. You may dwell with us for a while, at least until your son is born.”
“What!”
The Elves burst out laughing, “You are almost in your second month of pregnancy,” he explained. “It is our business to know such things.”
Rian was speechless. She had not expected to become pregnant so soon. She did not know how to react to such news. She did not feel changed. The first thought she had was that now no one could say she did not provide an heir. She was satisfied with the baby’s sex, but the Elves seemed more delighted than she was. They immediately bombarded her with food and drink, with questions and their advice. For the rest of her pregnancy they pampered her, and when the birth itself came, it went easy for her. The Elves had some sort of magic to make it quick and less painful. She was not bed ridden for long.
Annael fetched the babe from a crib he had made himself. The infant wailed for milk. The Elves cooed to him and loved him instantly. In their youth, there was no noticeable difference between Elves and Men. He was healthy and whole with golden hair.
Rian nursed him and said, “His name will be Tuor, for that is what his father wanted. He mentioned so to me once, the night we… said farewell. I know it is much to ask, but I beg you to foster him and keep him hidden at least until I find my husband. Dor-lomin is not safe with our lords gone and I long to be reunited with Huor.”
Annael’s smile faded. She recognized pity in his eyes and knew he had ill news for her. “Lady,” he struggled to tell her, “I fought in the Nirneath and was the only one that survived of all my kin that went to war. Huor fell at the side of his brother and lies in the great hill of the slain the Orcs piled upon the battlefield.”
Rian became pale and silent. She clutched her son and gazed upon him in inner turmoil. She had shed tears for her parents, for her home and kin. She had allowed herself to love Huor, the last hope she had of having the family and warmth and love she had always craved. Now even he had been taken from her. How could she love her son? She could take no more grief. She let go of him in her heart and placed him back in his crib, leaving him the golden pin in her hair, the last thing of value she had to give as well as a strand of her hair. Then she left their dwelling without a word to anyone and never returned.
Annael went searching for her, thinking she had simply lost her way again, but she was not found this time. He brought Tuor with him and called for her, hoping the wails of her hungry babe would penetrate Rian’s grief stricken mind and bring her back. He knew the mothering instinct was as strong in women as it was among his own people. But she was gone, a cold wind began to blow, and freezing rain fell. Tuor’s cries became shrill and insistent. Annael tucked him into his cloak to keep him warm and stood frozen for a moment, overwhelmed. He had wanted to save Rian, but to his knowledge she was most likely dead. He had to think of the baby now.
Annael abandoned the search reluctantly. He was sad for Rian. Some were angry and horrified at her actions. No Elf would abandon their child and wander away with the purpose to die. But Annael defended her. Rian had been a child herself and lost more in her fifteen years than most of them had lost in ages and ages. He would not blame the girl. To honor her last wish, he reared Tuor alongside his own daughter. She was older and so became almost like a mother to him. She loved to carry him around and call him ‘hers’.
His earliest memory was being taught to swim in the lakes. Annael would toss him in, and Elia would catch him and splash him. Tuor grew into a tall youth, golden haired like his father. His eyes were bright and sea-green. Because he was raised by the Eldar, he had knowledge as much as any of the princes of the Edain. He spoke the Elf-tongues as well as the Common, learned to read and write, to wield bow and sword, to hunt, even to read stars and maps. Annael and his people treated him as one of them in truth. He quickly won the hearts of all his kin. He was of easy temperament as a toddler and child which became prudence as he grew. He listened patiently to the counsel of others. He saw that Annael led his people not as an overlord but rather like a chieftain and modeled himself after his foster-father.
He did have some unusual habits. Any pool of standing water seemed to fascinate him. He would spend hours treading water in the lake. He felt at peace in the water and could swear that he heard bubbling voices beckoning him. The people joked that he was half a fish. He knew from a very early age that he was different. He noticed signs of it gradually over the years. He aged much quicker than Annael’s daughter. At twelve he was taller than most of those around him and the Eldar usually were taller in stature than most Men. But Tuor would later hold the record amongst his people. He wondered who his mother had been. Annael never spoke of his wife, so for many years he assumed he must be some sort of hybrid. He never questioned his suspicions and called Annael his father and Elia his sister all the same. In fact he never really thought of his true lineage or even his race until he encountered his own kind.
In Tuor’s twelfth year some of Annael’s people began to vanish. To discover the reason for this, Annael led the entire population into the open, knowing there was safety in numbers. It was the furtherst Tuor had ever been from the mountain dwellings. Annael was very protective of him, not only because he was the youngest of them, but also because he was one of the last of the princes of the Edain. Tuor had soldiers all about him and was required to hold someone’s hand at all times.
Annael’s daughter was the next youngest but a teenager according to her kind. She walked along the outer line of the group, dragging her hand along the mountain walls absentmindedly. Suddenly, she came across an opening. Many hands reached out and seized her. An elf stepped up to her defense, was wounded, and seized as well. An alarm swept through the group.
“Tuor, get behind me!” Annael commanded. “In a circle, everyone! Back to back! In a circle!”
They obeyed, creating a circle with swords and shields forming the outer ring with bowmen littered among the rest. The sharp eyed archers managed to hit the Orcs carrying off their captives, leaving Elia and the other unharmed. Annael embraced his daughter with relief, and Tuor hugged her too. He had become close to her after all.
“It is even as I feared. Orcs have begun tunneling into our mountain. We must abandon our houses and flee to the Caves of Androth,” Annael said.
“Why must we flee like cowed dogs?” some demanded.
“Fortune favored us this day. No one was lost. But five of our people have already been captured, most likely slain or dragged off to become thralls of Angband. What would you have us do? Remain where we are where the Orcs know of us? How long before they send a battalion to round us all up? The Enemy does not value the lives of Orcs, but I value each and every one of my kin. I want no more taken.”
“But father, what of the village down there?” Tuor pointed down the mountain toward the valley.
Annael looked and answered, “It is not safe.”
“Why not?”
He hesitated to answer, “It is a village of Men.”
“Men?” Tuor cocked his head. “The Second-born? If it is not safe, are we to let the Orcs have them?”
“They are Men, but they are not Edain, and it is not Orcs that plague them. The village was overrun years ago by the Easterlings.”
Tuor was confused but now was not the time to ask questions concerning his race. Annael’s daughter was badly shaken as well as the others. They were anxious to find shelter in case more Orcs were on the prowl. They dared not return to their homes. They would not risk walking into a trap. They journeyed to the Caves of Androth and there they had a hard and wary life. Once they had all settled down, Tuor approached Annael with all seriousness.
“You cannot be my father. I have called you that all of my life, and you have called me son, but everyone has always known that we are not really bound by blood. Tell me who and what I am.”
“It is true,” Annael admitted. “You and I are not kin, we are not even kind. You see, Tuor, you are not an elf. That you have long guessed, but neither are you a Half-Elf. My wife died long ago, slain by Orcs as I tried to save her. Elia was our only child.”
Tuor bowed his head in disappointment. Somehow he had always felt in his heart that he did not belong amongst Annael’s people. He had hoped he was at least Half-Elf. He had been with Elves all of his life and had never even seen another Man. It also meant that things would be different now. His love for his companions and his foster father and sister would still be as strong, but now he knew that he was alone. Mortals lived short lives, so he had been told. There were some, not many but a few, that spoke harshly of Men. If Tuor was nearby they changed the subject or spoke in low whispers, but he caught snatches of their conversation. Men were unpredictable, fast growing in numbers, and violent. All save what they called ‘the Edain’.
“Am I the son of one of those wicked men in the village you wanted to get away from?” Tuor was almost afraid to know the answer.
Annael smiled, “You are a human, but not just any child of Man. I knew your mother, and that is how I came to adopt you. As for your father, I shared a battlefield with him, but when I finally saw his face, it had been made pale and cold by death’s clammy hands. I have never told you the truth because I made a promise to your mother to keep you safe. Safe from the Enemy and safe from other Men that would kill you because of your legacy. The village you saw was indeed your home. At least it was home to your mother and father ere war came between them. Now it is overrun by others of your kind and you cannot return. They are men that came out of the East and were twisted by Morgoth. They are not inherently evil, but no doubt they would make us all thralls or kill us. They do not love Elves. They fear us and hate us.”
Tuor breathed a sigh of relief, “If I am not one of the Easterlings, what am I?”
“You are Tuor son of Lady Rian and Lord Huor of House Hador. They were mighty among the Edain, Elf-friends, and of the First Men. They were once numerous and powerful, but in recent years, their heirs have dwindled. House Bëor might end with Beren. He wed Lúthien, and their children will be heirs to Thingol’s throne and are not likely to count themselves amongst Men. The House of Haleth is all but wiped out, their people scattered, and now only you, Tuor and your cousin Túrin remain to someday recapture the glory of House Hador.”
Tuor’s face brightened, “I have a cousin? I am not alone after all! Where is he?”
“They say that Túrin is being fostered in Doriath by King Thingol. It is quite unusual and the first time a king has adopted a child of another race. No doubt he did it because of Beren. He will be safe there, but I do not think your paths shall ever cross.”
“What was my mother and father like?”
“Your father was a great man. He and your uncle Húrin were well loved by Elves and Men alike. You take after him in looks. I knew your mother better. She was pretty, but she was sad. Life was cruel to her and should have been born to a kinder world. She left you with a name and this golden pin. Perhaps you may use it for a broach or something like that. Careful, it is very sharp.”
Annael rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, then held the pin and his mother’s strand of hair aloft to the boy. Tuor cautiously took them and studied the keepsakes for a moment, especially the hair. It was lucky he had it. Now he knew his mother had had fine brown hair, and Annael had kept it fragrant with flowers. He pinned the strand of her hair over his heart. Perhaps it was a silly notion, but he hoped that it would bring luck and somehow his mother would be with him.
“You liked my mother?”
“I pitied her. She was very young. While she was pregnant, she sang to you, but when you were born and she discovered the news of Huor’s death, she left everything behind. Even you.”
“What happened to her?”
“That I cannot say with any certainty. But it is unlikely she is alive.”
Tuor tried to fathom why she would abandon him so. He tried to picture her in his mind’s eye and struggled to remember her lullabies, but that was no good. He clutched at the pin and found tears were welling in his eyes. His father had died honorably in battle. He knew he must be strong and strive to be like him. If only he had some keepsake from him. Perhaps if he had not been slain Tuor would have been raised among his own kind, most likely by his uncle. Things might have been so different.
“What is to become of me?” he asked.
“That is for you to decide when you come of age. Until then, you will remain in hiding with us. Afterward, you will always be my son.”
Tuor hugged him tight. He may never know his real parents, but Annael was all the father he could want and Elia a mother. But Annael was determined to send away what women and children remained among his folk before the darkest hours. Elia took much dissuading.
“Father, I belong with my people! This is not fair! Why does Tuor get to remain with you and the others? He is the one that needs the most protecting!”
Annael gave Tuor a long, hard look, “No. He must stay. Though he is young, I feel a sense of unease taking him forever from his kind. He is the last of the House of Hador. Where you are being sent, there will be few there to properly train him for whatever destiny awaits him.”
Tuor was not sure how he should react. He was glad he would not be separated from Annael, but he had to say farewell forever to Elia. As the years passed Annael continued to observe his promise. He taught Tuor all that he knew of war and weapons, of leadership and discipline. They lived their lives like outlaws in the underground. Tuor began to weary of it and longed for the company of others besides gruff Elf men. He began to wander closer and closer to the Man village, seeking a glimpse of his own kind, though Annael warned him that he would not like what he saw.
Annael’s words rang painfully true, Tuor discovered. He was a youth of sixteen now, and had honed his woodcraft until he was able to creep almost within the village itself. There he saw his people, the folk of Hador, working the barren fields in rags and chains about their feet. They worked beyond the point of exhaustion, fainting into the dust. When this was noticed by the Easterling guards, they were whipped into submission. It was all Tuor could do to remain hidden and make no sound. And then the Easterlings gathered up men that were fleet of foot and chased them down with their mangy dogs as sport. A child was near mauled to death before his eyes.
Blinded with tears, Tour returned to his foster-father. Annael could sense the rage within him from ten yards away.
He knew what Tuor must have done, but he asked anyway, “What has happened, my child?”
“I went down into my old village. I wanted to see…”
He began to describe what he saw. Annael listened sadly.
“We must do something! Those are my people. You keep saying that I am their lord. I have spent all my life under your instruction, being told that I will deliver them. And yet I have done nothing!”
“And nothing is all that can be done.” Tuor shook his head. Annael laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You are still young, and the Easterlings are many. My people are far too few. Someday-”
“Someday what? What will happen? What am I to do if not avenge myself and my kin upon the Orcs and the Easterlings?”
“Far hence, I deem, your doom lies, Tuor son of Huor. And this land shall not be freed from the shadow of Morgoth until Thangorodrim itself be overthrown. Therefore we are resolved at last to forsake it, and to depart into the South, and with us you shall go.”
“But how shall we escape the net of our enemies?” said Tuor. “For the marching of so many together will surely be marked. I remember the last time we journeyed forth from hiding. Elia was nearly taken and many were wounded.”
“We shall not march through the land openly and if our fortune is good we shall come to the secret way which we call Annon-in-Gelydh, the Gate of the Noldor, for it was made by the skill of that people, long ago in the days of Turgon.”
At that name, Tuor stirred, though he did not understand why.
“Who is this Turgon you speak of?” he asked.
“He is a son of Fingolfin,” Annael explained. “Now he is accounted High King of the Noldor, since the fall of Fingon. For he lives yet, most feared of the foes of Morgoth, and he escaped from the ruin of the Nirnaeth, when Hurin of Dor-lomin and Huor your father held the passes of Sirion behind him.”
“Then I will go and seek Turgon,” Tuor said suddenly with a great amount of hope. “For surely he will lend me aid for my father’s sake?”
“That you cannot,” Annael replied. “For his stronghold is hidden from the eyes of Elves and Men, and we know not where it stands. Of the Noldor some, maybe, know the way, but they will speak of it to no one. If you would have speech with them, then come with me, as I bid you, for in the far havens of the South you may meet with wanderers from the Hidden Kingdom.”
“Yes,” Tuor reluctantly agreed. “It is far better than staying here, hidden, and living in fear and vulnerable. But what of my people? Must they suffer a moment longer?”
“I told you, we can do nothing. They must suffer a while longer. I do not ask you to forget your kinsmen, only that you do not return to that village. At worst you will be captured and killed, at best you will experience little more than grief.”
Thus it came to pass that the Elves forsook even the caves of Androth, and Tuor went with them. He certainly could not strike out on his own, much as his restless heart desired it. He had the wisdom to realize that he could not possibly survive on his own. Much as it pained him, he must abandon the lands of his father and mother. He clung to the hope that he would find Noldor Elves wherever his foster father was taking him. It was probably where he had sent Elia and the others, though he would never confirm it. He would be reunited with her. Then perhaps he could return and take back Annael’s home as well as reclaim his own and liberate his people. Then he could truly call himself Huor’s son.
They went with great caution, and every one of them was armed and wary of battle. Annael knew it was a great risk. They had not dared such a feat, never allowing any more than two or three at a time to go forth from their hiding for food and tidings and never far. He had weighed his options for a long time now and felt he had no other choice. His scouts and hunters had told him that the mountains were littered with Orcs and the valleys patrolled by the Easterling chariot men. It was only a matter of time before the Caves were found. It was a miracle that they had not been discovered in all these years. The danger of that was growing day by day. Soon, they would not even be able to leave the caves and would either be smoked out by the enemy or trapped within them forever. The caves would become their tomb. He had taken a vote and his remaining folk agreed they would rather be slain or taken in the open. At least some would have a chance of escaping and surviving.
They tried to go swiftly and with stealth, but their enemies had kept watch upon their dwellings, and were soon aware of their marching. They had not gone far from the hills into the plain before they were assailed by a great force of Orcs and Easterlings, and they were scattered far and wide, fleeing into the gathering night. Annael had instructed them to flee rather than fight. Their weapons were in case they were caught, in a last ditch effort to escape. But Tuor’s heart was kindled with the fire of battle, and he would not flee as Annael bid him. He wielded his axe as his father had before him, and for a long while he stood his ground and slew many that assailed him.
When Annael saw this, he was torn. If he stayed to defend Tuor, he would be risking his life. He had a daughter waiting for him at the havens, and without him his people would truly be leaderless. But his love for Tuor had become as great as though he had been his own child, and he was too honorable to abandon the boy he had promised to protect.
With a leaping blow, he slew an Orc that had come at Tuor from behind, crying, “Damn your mannish pride, child!”
They could not keep up such a defense. The axe was heavy. Tuor’s arms grew weary and his blows rained down less often. The enemies came at them in great numbers. At long last he was overwhelmed and he and Annael were taken captive. The Easterlings gathered about Tuor and gazed at him long in thought as he struggled with his bonds. They were trying to decide if he was human or not.
“I say he is a Witch,” said one. “Look at him! He is tall and bright-eyed like them. Why would he be among them if he was a Man?”
The Easterlings called all Elves Witches. Morgoth had taught them that they were mystical and untrustworthy beings. They were fair but poisoned rivers and crops and sent plagues among their children. The Edain were their obedient slaves and were rewarded very little for their service. The Eldar were greedy and had claimed most of the lands of Beleriand for their own, land that should belong to Men.
“He is no Witch! He is not slender, but hardy and broad, and there is the beginnings of a beard upon his chin.”
“None of the Witches we have captured are straw-headed,” said a third. “But some of our thralls are. We must take our captives to Lorgan.”
They brought him into the halls of his father, but they no longer belonged to him. They belonged to the Easterling chieftain Lorgan. Now this Lorgan was held the chieftan of all the Easterlings and claimed to rule Dor-lomin as a fief under Morgoth. He was not tall, but hardy and swarthy with long dark hair that was braided. Its tip ended at his waist. He had a mustache that was well oiled and dark slanted eyes that were cruel. His nails were long and painted with gold, and there was gold bracelets upon his wrists, rings upon his fingers, and a jeweled necklace about his throat. He wore strange armor that was both colorful and grim. It was decorated with gems and bones over which he wore a long luxurious cape that was made from the fur of a spotted cat.
“New prisoners at last,” he clapped his hands together, and he spoke in the foreign tongue of the Easterlings. “You bring me only two? And after how many casualties?”
“These were the only ones that would stand and fight,” his servants explained. “They fought bravely and fiercely. The others ran like hares. They fear us, the mighty warriors of Rhun. Cowards they are, not worthy even to be slaves. ”
“Not worthy to be our slaves, but nonetheless they would have fetched a good price as someone else’s! Especially since you told me that they were all Witches. Do you have any idea how much the Orcs in Angband pay for living Witches? Do you!”
“No,” his servants became sheepish. “We will send a pursuit to round up the others. However, only one of these is a Witch. The other is one of the Strawheads.”
They pushed Tuor forward and then Lorgan was delighted. Surely this must be the missing heir of Dor-lomin. It was well known that Huor was close to the Witches and taller than any man. His son was not yet fully grown and had surpassed his height, and he had the golden hair of the House of Hador, for which the Easterlings named them Straw-heads. When the Easterlings first took control of Dor-lomin, Lorgan had tortured the former lord’s servants, demanding to know where the last of the line were hidden, the wives and children. They were not simply being thickheaded when they claimed not to know. However, one old man gave him a clue, saying that Huor’s wife had been pregnant and strayed in the direction of Mithrim which was the abode of Witches.
Tuor began to shout, though he was gagged.
“What was that?” Lorgan sneered. “I cannot make out your mumblings!”
He ripped the cloth out of his mouth. The force almost broke Tuor’s jaw.
“You are the usurper! You are the cause of my people’s suffering! I command you to release me and my people!”
Tuor spoke his father’s language, hoping that some of the thralls nearby would hear and rise up. There were enough of his own men in the halls that had been deemed tame enough to walk free, outnumbering Lorgan’s guards. If they would only take courage, they could seize their masters’ weapons and throw off his yoke themselves here and now.
“You command me?” Lorgan laughed.
“Tuor, say no more!” Annael warned in the Elf-tongue.
One of the Easterlings struck him. He had not let a single sound pass his lips before, but now that he had, they feared that the Witch would cast a spell. They gagged him quickly.
“Release him! It is not him or his folk that you want. I am the one you want! I am Tuor son of Huor, the true lord of Dor-lomin!”
To Tuor’s dismay, there was not even a single stir among the thralls. In fact, they seemed to shrink at his announcement rather than becoming emboldened.
“There is no Lord of Dor-lomin! You speak the serf tongue and were caught fleeing as thralls will! As for your pet Witch, him and his folk are not my problem anymore. The Orcs will have him and the rest soon enough. As for you, you are to become my slave. Bow before me!”
“I will not even bend my knees!”
“Thralls are like animals,” Lorgan said. “They just need to be broken and trained with proper reward and punishment. Watch!”
He turned to the nearest thrall and commanded him to bow. The once proud man kneeled without hesitation.
“You see how easily your people obey?” Lorgan said. “Do likewise!”
Tuor refused. One of Lorgan’s cruel servants elbowed Tuor in the spine so that he almost fell forward, but he regained his balance and ignored the pain. He gave Lorgan a steady eye.
“I expected no less from the son of Huor.”
“I will never bow to the likes of you. You are a thrall yourself. You are a slave to Morgoth.”
Lorgan motioned to his servants. They seized Tuor and turned him so that his back faced Lorgan. He held a whip in his hand now.
“Some thralls are harder to tame than others. All it takes is time. Fifteen shall do for now.”
Tuor was flogged with fifteen lashes as Lorgan looked on with a smile. Annael shut his eyes. Then Tuor was turned to face Lorgan again.
“Bow!”
“You may whip me until death, but I will not bend willingly!” Tuor said stubbornly.
“Very well.”
The Easterling drew a knife and clasped Tuor by the hair. He was certain he was about to slit his throat, but instead Lorgan began sawing at his hair.
“You are a boy with an over-swollen head,” he said. “A few days of hard labor and a good lashing should serve you well. Very soon you will bow and the only word passing your lips shall be: Yes, Master.”
He was cast into a pented area where other slaves were kept, but not Annael. His foster-father was taken from him. His new companions were a miserable lot. Most were half-starved and could not even endure his glance. No one spoke to him, save for a kind young girl.
“At first we thought you were an Elf that had come to deliver us.”
“Where did they take Annael?” Tuor asked desperately.
“He was locked away somewhere else, good sir,” the girl answered. “I shall wash your wounds. Tomorrow they shall set you to hard labor. It would not do to let open wounds fester in the sun.”
She began tending to him. He had not realized before how deep he had been cut. The washbowl was red with blood and his head swam.
“Tell me,” he said, remembering his manners. “What is your name?”
“Alanna.”
She might have been beautiful if she were not so thin and starved. Her hair was golden and her eyes were blue but watery and dull.
“I see they cut your hair,” she said. “What a shame.”
“How old are you, Alanna?”
“Fourteen.”
“Have you been a thrall all your life?”
“No,” she answered. “I remember several years as a child being free. Then the Easterlings came and killed my mother and enslaved my father and I.”
“What of the rest of your family?”
“My older brother was set to hard labor. His strength failed him after so much toil. My younger brother was sold to the Orcs. All I have left is my father. If he were to die, no doubt the Easterlings would kill me too.”
“How long did your older brother live after they put him to work?”
“Four years.”
Tuor’s sleep was uneasy, and he awoke with a whip curled about his leg.
“Get up, Straw-head You’ve work to do.”
“I will not be of much use if I cannot even walk!”
“Did I ask for an opinion?”
“I beg you to be merciful, Masters!” Alanna cried. “He is new and does not understand your ways!”
“Stand aside, wench! Now get up, Straw-head!”
Tuor struggled to his feet. He was not fast enough for them and was stung again by the whip.
“Stop it, please!” Alanna pleaded.
“Enough insolence from you, woman!”
The Easterlings struck her and grabbed her arms. One raised his whip and let it come down on her. Tuor stared in disbelief. He could not believe that they would be cruel enough to use a whip upon a woman. They struck her ten times and she lay limp upon the floor, the back of her dress in tatters and bloody.
“You are more trouble than you are worth, woman,” the Easterling growled and spat at her.
“Leave her be!” Tuor bellowed. “You could have killed her!”
“She has learned a valuable lesson. One that you will learn even if it kills the both of you. Come with us, Straw-head!”
They put chains upon his feet and led him forward, stepping over Alanna. Tuor was given some menial task and obeyed. As he worked, a cart passed by filled with bound captives. It was Annael and a dozen of his folk. The Easterlings had managed to capture some of them in the night. The cart was being guided by Orcs. Tuor dropped his tools and ran after them, which was especially difficult with the chains on his feet. His guards pursued him and held him in place as the cart slowly crawled out of sight.
“I will save you!” he called to them. “I will escape and come after you!”
“No!” Annael answered. “Where we go, there is no hope of escape or rescue. Should you find yourself free, do as I first commanded. Run and do not look back! Live!”
The cries of those doomed people rang in his ears, and Annael’s last words stayed with him.
Hard and bitter was his life then, for it pleased Lorgan to treat Tuor the more evilly as he was of the kin of the former lords, and he sought to break, if he could, the famous pride of the House of Hador. But Tuor saw wisdom, and endured all pains and taunts with watchful patience so that in time his lot was somewhat lightened, and at the least he was not starved, as were many of Lorgan’s unhappy thralls. He was strong and skillful, and Lorgan fed his beasts of burden well while they were young and could work.
Tuor became in all appearances a tame thrall, but his hair grew back longer and thicker than before. His eyes shone with a fierce fire and because of his labor he became strong and grew taller than any of the Easterlings. He did not forget his name either, for he was always called simply Straw-head by the Easterlings, never anything else. Tuor also remembered the name of Gondolin and that of the High King Turgon. Standing amongst the other thralls and his captors, he looked like a golden lion, chained, but never fully subdued.
Even though Lorgan owned him, Tuor rarely saw him over the next few years. Most often he worked the fields with the common slaves. Every day he was assigned some new overseer but there were times that he was allowed to converse with his own folk.
“What has happened to us?” he said. “The Men of Hador were once proud. So far, I have not seen one act of rebellion in any of you. Not one. The only person that has even shown their liege lord the slightest loyalty was Alanna, a young girl! Have the Easterlings completely broken the wills and hearts of everyone here?”
“And what do you know of our sufferings having been raised safe amongst the Elves?” they answered. “Not until now have you even spoken with one of us lowly humans. You speak our tongue, but your accent is strange. We do not deny that your father and his before him were great and noble, but at least they lived among Men. The glory days of the Edain are over and you are nothing more than a slave now like the rest of us. When the Easterlings swooped into our village, only old men and young boys were left to defend it. All of the fit warriors went to the Great Battle and never returned and no Elves came to save us. The men you see about you were born and bred thralls. What did you expect?”
“I expected to find that you were still Men and not cowed dogs. Annael always told me that the Men of Hador were exceptionally brave and resilient. The Easterlings are formidable, but we outnumber them and they depend upon slave labor to feed themselves. If only you would revolt, we could win our home and our lives back! Is it not worth a chance?”
But his words did not move them. They began to resent him, and Tuor began to lose faith in his own race. How could they allow themselves to live on this way? They obeyed the Easterlings without question. They refused to defend their sons and daughters. Men that were younger than Tuor fell beside him, dying of exhaustion. Even worse, the daughters of the Edain were taken as Easterling brides, often by force. The Easterlings had brought few of their women from their own lands, and since women could not work as their men could, the Easterlings saw little other use for them. Some of the Easterlings took up to three girls to wife, and any young woman was fair game to their masters. Soon, there would be no children of Hador left. Their sons would all eventually perish and their daughters would bear only Easterlings.
Tuor told the other thralls about the Hidden Kingdom, hoping to rouse them somehow, but Alanna’s father Peleg laughed.
“Your Elf friends could not aid us,” he said. “What is Gondolin to us? No one knows if this place you speak of even exists. I suggest you be careful about the stories you tell. If Lorgan heard you speak like that, he will punish you.”
“They bled me until I fainted yesterday and they ran me two leagues today. Lorgan always has a good kick ready for me just tor taking in his air. If they were to whip me now, I doubt I would feel any pain. They have killed all the nerves in my back. What could they possibly do to me?” Tuor laughed.
“Look at me. Do I look forty? Nay! I look like I am ninety because of hard labor. They shall work you to death, young fellow. Once you cannot work they shall slaughter you and feed you to their dogs. That is to be my fate.”
“Father, do not speak like that!” Alanna scolded. “I for one believe his stories.”
Tuor gave her a warm smile and turned away. Then he heard the sound of a horse coming. He did not like the sound of that. It was one of Lorgan’s messengers. He halted before Alanna and her father.
“What would you have of us, master?” Alanna asked, trying to smile.
“So, Alanna, you are a child no longer?”
Her eyes widened and her voice trembled, “I am seventeen and no I am not a child but a girl nonetheless.”
Peleg frowned and narrowed his eyes, saying, “Why must you oppress my daughter with such questions? None of you have ever paid any attention to her before. Has she done something wrong? She has few tasks but she does them well, and she tries her best to be cheerful about it. If you have come to flog her, I must take the blame for not raising her to respect her masters properly.”
“Have you come to kill me?” Alanna squeaked.
“You have already taken my wife and sons!” Peleg cried. “I should not have to lose my daughter as well! That ain’t fair!”
“I know that my tailoring has been shoddy lately, but that is only because the cloth as of late has been such poor quality. Perhaps if I worked harder-”
“Calm down, the both of you. You misunderstand,” the overseer was uncharacteristically gentle.
“Why then have you come?” Tuor asked.
“Lorgan has need of an heir.”
At that announcement, Alanna gasped and tried to hide behind Tuor.
“Do you not have women among you that can produce this heir?” Penlod asked.
“None that are desirable.”
“But I am nothing but skin and bones! I am not even fit for childbearing! And besides, I am not worthy of the Great Lorgan. I am not even a child of the former lords, only one of the junior branches of House Hador. There are other women about, older with wider hips and gentler birth. Please let me stay here with my father. Who will take care of him if not me?”
“Never mind your father! From the looks of him, he will not last much longer with or without your help. Your status is nothing. From the moment you become Lorgan’s wife, you shall be a thrall no longer. A little food and rest will make you fit to bear many sons.”
“I will not be Lorgan’s wife or bear his child!”
The messenger seized her and she screamed.
“Wait a few more years,” her father pleaded. “She is too young to become a bride.”
“We marry as young as twelve here. By seventeen girls like you are happy mothers. So long as the moon courses have come upon the girl, that is enough for Lorgan.”
“Father!”
“Go with him, Alanna,” Tuor said. “You will have a better life.”
“Well said, Straw-head!”
“I would rather my daughter be a thrall than the wife of the Easterling that slew her kinsmen!”
“It is not your choice, old man.”
“Do not let them take me!” Alanna began to weep.
“I will die before I allow that!”
Tuor leapt upon Peleg and restrained him as the messenger lifted Alanna to his saddle and rode away.
“Do not be a fool,” Tuor whispered to him. “Your daughter is one of the fortunate ones. But if you truly wished to save her, you would have to rouse all the thralls. Would you help me to do that?”
“Are you mad!”
“Ha! After all your loud mewling against that Easterling! Your protesting was only a show for the sake of your daughter. I knew it. You are just as faint-hearted as the others!”
“Unhand me! I could tell Lorgan about all your tales and you will die!” Peleg hissed.
Tuor let him up and then shoved him so that he fell right back to the ground again.
“I was not born a thrall and I do not intend to die one!”
The next morning he was fetched by his slave-drivers and taken into the forests to cut firewood. They gave him an axe and then pushed him so that he fell into the wheelbarrow. Then they laughed, but it would be the last laugh they would have at his expense. Tuor turned his back on them and lifted up the axe but did not bring it down. He remained stagnant.
“Start chopping, Straw-head! What are you waiting for?”
He did not move.
“Hey!”
Suddenly Tuor turned on them with the axe and killed them. Then with a mighty blow to his manacles, he cut them and fled into the forest. Lorgan was very wrathful when the news of his escape reached him, and they hunted for him with dogs. But the dogs bolted towards him and fawned upon him and did not attack. Tuor had quickly befriended them during his years among the Easterlings, feeding them what scraps he could, which was often more than their real masters gave them. The Easterlings purposely kept them gnarly and hungry so that they would make fiercer creatures.
“Jasper and Jack! I have a treat for you!” he laughed. “There, now return to your masters. I cannot take you with me.”
They would not leave until Tuor grew harsh. Then they whimpered and obeyed. He had escaped thralldom only to become a friendless outlaw.
For four years, Tuor wandered as an outlaw, dwelling in the caves of Androth alone, slaying any Easterling or Orc he came upon. The Easterlings set a price upon his head but feared those caves where the Elves once dwelt. They came to believe their vengeful ghosts haunted the place now. But Tuor did not desire vengeance. He sought for the Gate of the Noldor.
One day Tuor sat by a stream near the caves and began to strum on his harp. As he sat, the well at his feet began to boil and overflowed. Tuor thought, perhaps childishly, that it was a sign and followed after the rill. He found himself in Ered Lomin and before him was an impossible wall of rock.
“So my hope has cheated me!” he cried. “I am in the midst of the land of my enemies!”
“Enemies? What enemies might that be?” said a voice.
Tuor turned with relief to see two Elves, gray-cloaked and mail clad underneath. They were fairer and more fell than Annael’s people. When they saw that he was armed only with a harp they sheathed their swords.
“We are Gelmir and Arminas of Finarfin’s people. You must be of the Edain of old of the House of Hador I deem by that golden head of yours.”
“I am Tuor son of Huor, but I must abandon the land of my fathers where I am outlawed.”
“If you would escape South then you are on the right road,” Gelmir said.
“That is what I thought, but I do not know where to turn and all has come to darkness.”
“Through darkness one may come to the light,” Arminas said, grinning.
“One will walk in the Sun while they may. You are Noldoli?”
“Of Finarfin’s people,” they nodded.
“Tell me if you can where the Gate of the Noldor lies. I have been searching for it since my foster-father spoke of it.”
The Elves burst out laughing.
“So much for the wits of Man!” Gelmir scoffed.
“Your search has ended, my friend,” Arminas told him. “We have just passed that Gate. There is stands before you!”
He pointed to the arch into which the water flowed, laughing softly to himself.
“Come now! Through darkness one may come to the light! But we cannot guide you for long. We are returning to our lands with an urgent errand.”
“Thank you. The Noldor are courteous folk.”
Tuor followed them down the steps and they waded into the water. Arminas splashed Gelmir and spluttered and puffed, pretending that the cold bothered him.
When they came to the foot of the rapids, they stood under a great dome of rock. Beside the falls the Noldoli halted.
“Now we must go our separate ways with all speed. Matters of great peril are moving in Beleriand.”
They waded into the water again that almost rose above their waists. Tuor watched them for a moment then called out.
“Great peril? Has then the hour come when Turgon himself shall come forth?”
They halted at that name and turned to him in amazement.
“That is a matter that concerns the Noldor rather than the sons of Man,” Gelmir said suspiciously. “What do you know of Turgon?”
“Very little,” Tuor admitted. “But I know that my father aided him in his escape and his stronghold is the last hope of the Noldor. I do not know why, but his name stirs something within me and is ever upon my lips.”
Arminas and Gelmir’s eyes grew hard upon him.
“If I had my will, I would seek the Gate of Gondolin rather than tread these dark ways unless there is no other way to his dwelling?”
“Who shall say?” Gelmir answered. “If his stronghold is hidden so also are the ways thither. I myself do not know them though I have searched for them for almost a century. If I knew them, I would not tell you or any Man!”
“Gelmir!” Arminas hissed. “You must forgive him, Tuor. We can help you no more, but do not say that our meeting was by chance! I know that you shall find whatever it is you seek. There is a doom written upon your brow. The favor of Ulmo is on your House.”
Arminas patted him on the shoulder.
“Do you have any other insolent questions?”
Arminas threw Gelmir a dark look and then smiled at Tuor, “Of course, you know too much already. You know who we are and you know the name of Turgon. We cannot allow you to leave this place.”
Tuor laughed, knowing he was not serious and said, “May you be given the speed of eagles.”
“Anar Kaluva tielyanna, mellon!” Arminas bowed low. The saying was actually, The sun shall shine upon your path, friend.
“Namarie,” Gelmir said curtly in farewell.
With that they turned and went up the long stairs. Tuor was alone again and friendless.

Tuor journeyed to the coast, always aroused by the rush of wings. Tour felt his feet drawn to the sea-strand. It is said that he was the first of Men to reach the great sea, and none save the Elves have felt more deeply the longing that it brings. He stood gazing upon the waves until it grew cold. The sun sank low into a black cloud and there was a stirring and murmur of a storm to come.
Suddenly, a great wave rose far off and rolled towards the shore, and about it was a mist of foam and shadow. It curled and broke and there stood a living shape of great height and majesty.
Tuor was no craven, but he fell before this creature. If his legs were willing, he would have fled. He looked upon it and a name passed his lips.
“Ulmo!”
He knew that it was Ulmo Lord of Waters, the Vala of the sea. He wore a crown like silver, his hair fell as foam, and beneath his gray mantle he was clad in mail as that of a mighty fish. He did not step onto the shore but stood knee-deep in the waters.
“Arise, Tuor son of Huor!” he said, and his voice was deeper than the foundations of the world. “Fear me not, though long have I called to you and remained unanswered. In the Spring you should have stood here, but now a fell winter comes from the land of the Enemy. Haste you must learn and the pleasant road I designed for you may be changed. My counsels have been scorned and already a host of foes has come between you and your goal.”
“What is my goal, Lord?” Tuor asked.
“That which your heart has ever desired: To find Turgon and to look upon the Hidden City. Now array yourself in the arms which long ago I decreed for you so that they shall look upon you and know you. You shall be my messenger!”
There came another great wave, and there was cast at his feet a hauberk, a helm, a shield, and a long sword in a sheath. The hauberk was silver and the shield was long and tapering. Its field was blue with the emblem of a white swan’s wing. Then Ulmo cast his own cloak before Tuor.
“You shall walk under my shadow, but tarry no more. Will you take up my errand?”
“I will, Lord,” Tuor answered, though he did not see how he could have possibly refused.
“Then I will set words in your mouth to say to Turgon. But first I will teach you and some things you shall hear that not even the mighty among the Eldar have heard.”
He spoke to Tuor of Valinor, the Exile of the Noldor and the Doom of Mandos and the Blessed Realm. Tuor was amazed.
“But in the armor of Fate there is ever a rift until the full making which you might call the End. So it shall be as long as I endure, and Doom is strong and I am diminished; a whisper, a passing thing. The Curse of Mandos is hastening to its finish, and all the Noldor shall perish. The waters wither and are poisoned and my power withdraws. All of their hopes shall crumble and the last hope lies in you, for so I have chosen.”
“Then Turgon shall not stand against Morgoth?”
“Melkor is more than his match.”
“What would you have me do?” Tuor bellowed, for if he did not shout, his voice would have been lost upon the wind and each time he opened his mouth he swallowed rain and sea water. “Though I am willing to do as my father and stand by that king in his need, of little avail shall I be, an escaped thrall and alone among so many of the valiant High Folk of the West.”
“If I choose to send you than do not believe that your one sword is not worth the sending. The valor of the Edain the Eldar shall never forget. They marvel that they gave life so freely of which they had on earth so little. It is not for valor that I send you, but to bring into the world a hope beyond your sight and a light that shall pierce the darkness.”
Tuor still did not understand the Vala’s words, and they brought no comfort to him. He did not answer, and when the mutter of the storm rose to a great cry he covered his ears. The wind mounted and his mantle streamed like a cloud behind him.
“Go now,” Ulmo said. “Go before the Sea devours you! Osse obeys the will of Mandos.”
Tuor found it interesting that Osse the Maia would do such a thing. It was known that Osse was Ulmo’s banner man. It seemed that the politics of Valinor were bizarre indeed.
“As you command, Lord. But if I escape Mandos, what shall I say to Turgon?”
“If you come to him then your mouth shall speak as I would. Speak and fear not! Thereafter do as your heart and valor lead you. Hold to my mantle and I shall send one to you out of the wrath of Osse and he shall be your guide: The last mariner of the last ship that shall seek into the West. Go now to the land!”
And Tuor cried against the wind, “I go, Lord, but now my heart yearns rather for the Sea.”
Tuor fled from the fury of the sea and came to the high terraces. The wind drove him against the cliff and when he came to the top he bent and panted and entered the empty halls of Nevrast. He fell asleep to the sound of waves of water crashing against the walls.