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He knew that day would never come again for him. He screamed the words anyway, out of faith in the future of the Edain and the Eldar. Every blow of his axe was a prayer, every howling enemy spurting black blood, a prayer answered.
The ecstasy of battle-rage left no room in his mind for doubt, or much thought at all, for that matter. A small fear that the enemy would somehow take him alive had gnawed at him when he first made his stand, but by the thirtieth foe slain, the fear had vanished. Such would never happen. He had held the pass too long. They would tire, and pierce him with arrows, as they did to his brother, or send Gothmog against him, as they did to his lord.
So he was ready, in the end, but still surprised, when from the edge of his vision, a sword blade licked out towards him. It cut his throat full open. His axe fell from nerveless hands, and the battle rage ebbed, leaving him with a moment of clarity to wonder who might have done this thing, but all the figures standing around him had grown too dark and indistinct, and soon the darkness swallowed his eyesight, and he felt the blood-warm water of the Fen of Serech reach up to claim him.
When he woke (though he had not fallen asleep) he was lying in an alcove in a dimly lit hallway.
Once he lifted himself to his feet and looked around, he knew exactly where he was. Not out of any familiarity with the surroundings, which were entirely strange, but because he felt no more pain, no more rage, no more exhaustion—the best he could summon was a kind of blunted yearning—and that must mean he had died and his spirit was houseless, and passing through the halls.
All is as the wise women tell, he thought to himself.
The stone hallway seemed to have no end in either direction. He picked one at random and began to walk down it with his body that was only really the thought of a body. He was neither confused nor dismayed. Eventually, he would get to where he ought to be, and receive the Gift of Men, which he had never entirely understood, but then again, he had never felt a pressing desire to understand it in life, much less in his current state. He simply knew that his stay here was temporary. He would go somewhere else.
And perhaps, on the way, he would have a chance to say some farewells.
“Men of Dor-Lómin!” he called out. “Huor! Where are you, brother? Be at ease. We held the pass long enough!”
There was no answer, so he kept walking. A little disappointment stirred inside his heart (that was only really the thought of a heart), but before it could swell to greater grief, the enchantment of the halls hushed it down again.
Húrin, a voice called back. It was not his brother’s voice. I would speak with you.
He turned, and saw a hooded figure. The hallway seemed to expand, the walls receding, as if the words needed more space to sound in, and so the stone obliged.
“Are you the master of these halls?” asked Húrin.
Yes. I will show you the way.
The figure moved forward. Húrin matched his pace so that they walked together, shoulder to shoulder.
“Well met, Lord Námo. I did not expect to see you. Can you tell me if we held back the enemy from Dor-Lómin? Are my wife and son safe? Or is it too soon to tell? Or is passing on these tidings against your laws or the laws of your wife? Such a rule has merit, I suppose, for if you stopped to tell all dead Men what happened after they died, you would have no time for any other affairs. Perhaps I am a special exception, though, for my great deed. Is that so?”
You are very talkative.
“So my own wife tells me.” He laughed, and the laughter felt real and true, as if it was somehow more than the thought of a laugh. “Long may Morwen wait before she comes to these halls, but you must meet her one day, and then you can complain of me together.”
I am sorry, but I cannot answer all your questions. Some may yet be answered before you leave, but I must first ask you one of my own.
There was a long pause. It struck him as strange, this hesitation to ask a question of a mortal. Was Námo not the master of all doom? And why had he apologized? Húrin sharpened his eyes (how, he did not know) and glanced aside in an attempt to see past the shadow of the hood. He spied the dim outline of a coldly beautiful, impassive face, but the eyes remained hidden and gave nothing away.
Eventually, he grew impatient. “Ask away.”
Húrin, in your reckoning, did you live a good life?
He laughed again. “And I feared your question would be a hard one. Of course it was a good life. It was a very good life. Yes, I had sorrows and grief, above all the death of my daughter Lalaith, but such grief is common to all Men, so I was never alone in suffering it. And I had joys both common and uncommon. My brother and I flew through the heavens on the back of an eagle, not once but twice! I had the love of a good woman. And at the end, it was the highest honor to fall fighting the enemy in the service of the proud house of Fingolfin, as my father did before me, and my grandfather.”
As he spoke, he imagined these shining moments plucked and strung together like precious beads. Now that his life was over, the ends would be closed into a perfect circle, and the work gently set aside.
“I would have liked to live longer, to see my son grow to manhood, to continue the battle. But I know my time is at an end. If the tales of Beren and Lúthien are true—”
They are true, but a return has only ever happened once in Arda, then nevermore. There will be no return for you.
“I did not intend to beg for what is not owed to me,” said Húrin stiffly. “I was about to say that if the tales are true, then you are not pitiless. But you have no need to pity me.”
I am sorry for mistaking your intention.
More apologies. This was beyond strange. “Now that I have answered your question, will you answer mine?”
As I said, I cannot answer all of them, but before I show you the way onwards, I will answer three.
“Fair enough. Can I see my brother? He arrived only shortly before me.”
No.
Húrin waited to see if more explanation would be forthcoming. It was not.
“Can I send my wife a message in a dream?” This seemed an even more reasonable request than the first.
No.
He began to feel a little resentful. Perhaps Námo should have shown himself as the implacable master of doom from the very start, so as not to give Húrin any false hope.
Very well. He resolved that his last question would be for knowledge, not for a favor likely to result in another humiliating denial. It was a question that had lingered in the back of his mind since the moment of his death. He had not judged it of much importance. Still, it nagged at him.
“Who struck me down, Lord Námo? The enemies I fought came at me with axes or bare hands, and I saw none with swords.”
Námo sighed, and the air itself seemed to tremble around his sigh. I had hoped you would not ask that question, but I am bound to answer. It was my brother Irmo who struck you down with his sword of dreams.
Húrin felt as if he were a child again, wandering lost in the hills of Dimbar. He could make no sense of this.
“Why is your brother my enemy?” he cried. “And if the Valar now judge themselves free to interfere in the affairs of Men, why do they fight against us and not for us?”
That is more than three questions.
Húrin halted, crossed his arms and glared at Námo. “I will make a new bargain then. Explain yourself, or I will go no further, and you must drag me.”
We are there already. Námo moved aside, revealing two plain doors set into the stone wall. The left door was obsidian black, while the right door was marble white. Nevertheless, I will answer. Irmo is not your enemy, and he slew you on my request. But you must understand: you did not die in the Fen of Serech, Húrin. You died in a dream.
“Is this all a dream then, and I am alive? Or was my life a dream?”
Neither. You were already dead. You dreamed in your death, and you died in your dream. It was a mercy that we of the Fëantúri decided to grant you.
“I do not think it much of a mercy,” he said bitterly. He had been ready to leave, and now he was not, and he could not help but mourn the loss of his former certainty.
Námo gestured to the doors. We did not take anything from you that cannot be regained, and here is the proof. The black door leads to a path through the Void and then beyond the Void, but what lies there, Eru only knows. It is the Gift of Men for you to discover. The white door is the door of memory unsevered. It leads back to the Fen of Serech, and then upwards to a high chair set on a mountain. If you pass through the white door, all your questions will be answered. You will take the black door as well, at the end of the path, but you will leave with the full knowledge of your life.
“Why should I not take the white door?” He reached out his hand and touched the marble, yearning for it but not yet pushing it open, for he was finally beginning to understand. “I… I did not fall in the fen, did I? They took me alive.”
Yes. You lived for a very long time after. Morgoth tortured you in body, but that was only the smallest part of your suffering. In all of Arda, I cannot recall a Man who has suffered more. You were hollowed out and hammered down and twisted into a spiteful wretch, and the man you are now would despise the man you became.
Húrin snatched back his hand from the door, but found himself slowly reaching forward again, caught between dread and yearning. “What of my son?”
He is dead, and that is the kindest thing I can say.
“And what of—”
—everyone you have ever loved is already dead. If you open the white door, you will know how they died. But I beg you, Húrin, do not open it.
“Why did you do this to me?” he cried out. “It is a cruel choice.”
You forget, because the sword of dreams severed your memory, but you also dared me to drag you the first time we met. You lingered long here, cursing at me and at the other spirits until they feared to take the passage onwards. You made of yourself a problem needing to be solved, and this is the manner in which we tried to solve you. Perhaps it was not done well, but we have not yet had much practice with the spirits of Men. I am sorry.
“Is there no end to your useless apologies?”
Námo remained silent. Húrin turned to look in his face, and this time he caught a glimpse of eyes dancing with pale fire, and something not unlike sadness in the set of the mouth.
“Well, you will be rid of me soon, one way or the other,” Húrin said. “I will not keep you waiting.” He had always been quick to make his choices and then stand by them, and whatever kind of man he had become in his later years, he doubted that had ever changed.
Take all the time you need to choose. Our conversations have not been easy ones, to say the least, but I do not despise your presence, and I am glad to have known you. Your life was both a blessing and a curse, but I will treasure the part which is a blessing.
Now that Húrin finally understood Námo’s meaning, the bitter taste in his mouth (that was not his mouth) diminished. The dim light in the halls brightened to a strength that neared sunlight, and in this light the black door shone subtly, seeming to invite his touch. He trailed his not-fingertips across its smooth surface, and wondered how many others had done the same before him.
“I have one last question for you. You say everyone I have ever loved is dead. So where have they gone?”
The Eldar remain in my halls. The Men have passed through the door.
“All is as the wise women tell,” he said, and imagined his life like a shining necklace again, joined end to end, set aside and trusted to strange keepers. “Lord Námo, if you feel that you owe me anything—and I believe that you do—be kind to the Eldar in your care. They have already shed unnumbered tears. As for the Men, I go to follow them now. I can spend no more time dwelling on dreams or memories. Farewell!”
Farewell, Húrin Thalion.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness, trusting in the keeping.
The door closed.
The air trembled.
Námo, finding himself alone, addressed himself to the other Fëantúri.
He is gone now. So, did I do well? A necessary question, for like Húrin, Námo was a creature of duty.
You followed your nature, brother, as do we all. Let your heart be glad that in the end, he had a choice. And he chose well.