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The Dark Lord’s steps come as those of a mortal man albeit louder and brighter upon the black stone. The prisoner sits in place, frail arms upon the chains binding him to the chair. Melkor’s snarl of rage is audible in the desolate landscape. He had been forced here for nought!
For some period the orcs will not draw near the wretched human. For some period Morgoth has been forced to hear the fevered pleas of fools spinning tales of a madness so terrible they would risk the wrath of their unforgiving Master And He has killed a number of them in His wrath.
…
“Such intricately wrought cruelty I have not seen for quite some time. I was perhaps hasty in questioning thy design.”
The words catch Him just as He has turned back to the steps. For a moment Melkor cannot be sure that the man has spoken. Nor can he immediately put meaning to the words for they are not spoken with despair nor even fury but relish. Its face is twisted into a smile that would not have looked out of place on one of His own servants, distorted even further by the light of the stolen jewels.
“The people of thy house are near their expiration,” Morgoth says softly, “Never shall thy house recover. And it is you who has brought upon their final doom.”
Húrin actually looks to him now, his expression is perhaps more terrible than a smile. It is almost earnest as his head tilts to the side.
“Blood is of no consequence in war, Morgoth.”
It is the madness brought on by captivity, by the fortress itself. It must be. The Vala responds how He knows best, reaches out to add another mark with His claw like nails to the man’s face. Blood trickles steadily onto the lips that have not met water for an ungodly period.
And Húrin the Steadfast laughs. Laughs like the golden haired attack dog of His brother. Fey and ringing, it echoes through the Thangorodrim.