Courage

"This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise." Indie roleplaying blog for Huor, canon character from the Silmarillion.

[magicalhideoutengineer]

Rían and Gilraen

And Rían said to the Elves: ‘Let him be called Tuor, for that name his father chose, ere war came between us. And I beg of you to foster him, and to keep him hidden in your care; for I forebode that great good, for Elves and Men, shall come from him. But I must go in search of Huor, my lord.’

Then the Elves pitied her; but one Annael, who alone of all that went to war from that people had returned from the Nirnaeth, said to her: ‘Alas, lady, it is known now that Huor fell at the side of Húrin his brother; and he lies, I deem, in the great hill of slain that the Orcs have raised upon the field of battle.’

Therefore Rían arose and left the dwelling of the Elves, and she passed through the land of Mithrim and came at last to the Haudh-en-Ndengin in the waste of Anfauglith, and there she laid her down and died.

- Unfinished Tales: Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin

‘But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: “The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts.

[...]

“This is our last parting, Estel, my son. I am aged by care, even as one of lesser Men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle-earth. I shall leave it soon.”

‘Aragorn tried to comfort her, saying: “Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and if so, I would have you see it and be glad.”

‘But she answered only with this linnod: Ónen í-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim, ‘I gave Hope to the Dúnedain, I have kept no hope for myself.’

and Aragorn went away heavy of heart. Gilraen died before the next spring.

- Return of the King: Appendix A: The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen

A parallel can be drawn about Rían & Tuor and their descendants in the Third Age. Both women had experienced not only grief about losing their husband too early in the war against a dark lord with a baby to raise, but also the dwindling and the hardship of their people in this darkening world. So, I think, this famous line by Gilraen also applies to the state Rían was in when she learned about her Huor's fate. She gave hope to the world, she kept none for herself. In a way, Rían probably felt silmarly as Gilraen did, weary and heartbroken beyond care. They knew that their sons, Tuor and Aragorn, were destined for greatness, to bring hope for the world (Tuor's son Eärendil became Gil-Estel. Aragorn was called Estel since his youth), even though they had no strength or enough remaining years left to see that task accomplished in the end.

[asinoeiv]

I started this a while ago and always continued it while watching a series or something like that 😅. I just really wanted to draw human faces and wanted to give all those nameless wives at least a face. I really really hate that Hiril's husband and her daughters husband gets a name even though they are technically not members of the chieftain line.

[theworldsoftolkein]

Rían Mood-Board - by Tonya Zatsepina

Legendarium Ladies April: (26/30)

The Silmarillion Characters: (131/?)

Characters’ Mood-Boards: (438/?)

Rían, daughter of Belegund, was the wife of Huor, son of Galdor; and she was wedded to him two months before he went with Húrin his brother to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. When no tidings came of her lord she fled into the wild; but she was aided by the Grey-elves of Mithrim, and when her son Tuor was born they fostered him. Then Rían departed from Hithlum, and going to the Haudh-en-Ndengin she laid herself down upon it and died.

[ulmondil]

Rían & Huor and their “eyes of death”

some rambling about them below the cut

I think a lot about Rían and Huor and how briefly and brightly their lives burnt after the Sudden Flame caught—Rían who fled her home at 5 and Huor who was a soldier by 13. They both intimately knew both miracles and tragedies from a very early age. And they’re both foresighted at points of their story; did some part of them expect their lives would be short? Rían who loved ephemeral flowers, Huor the sprinter—with a name meaning impetuous, fiery spirit to boot—standing beside Morwen and Húrin, the firm and enduring. But they were also Rían maker of songs that endured, and Huor who held the rearguard—steadfast and stubbornly kind.

They were married for only 2 months before the Nirnaeth, and in some versions their time together was briefer still. They were around 22 and 28 years old, respectively, when they died; and the Bragollach and its aftermath had informed so many of those years. Perhaps they always felt some pull towards the earth, or a wick burning low; they certainly knew fear and pain quite well. But it never made them cruel or craven, and it didn’t stop them from making sacrifices that rippled all the way through to the fourth age.

Anyway, they are very special to me!

[welcome-to-the-petty-parade]

Huor’s death is so very Harold Godwinson. probably on purpose but i keep coming back to that thought.

[ulmondil]

a failed/abandoned idril in armour wip is now joined by a tuor 🥲

[fallesto]

She merely watched him crumple to the floor like a puppet with severed strings, his body folding into the dust with an unceremonious thud. His breath came in shallow rasps, the rise and fall of his chest erratic beneath the sodden fabric of his cloak. She tilted her head, the firelight catching the gold of her eyes as she studied the way his fingers twitched, still clutching at nothing, as if even in unconsciousness, he sought something to anchor him.

Her tail twitched once, twice as she observed the collapsed figure at her paws. Humans were such fragile things, crumpling under the weight of their own exhaustion like paper dolls in a downpour. Yet this one… this one had marched into her ruins with the audacity to ask if she was in danger. The irony was delicious enough to make her tongue dart out to catch the taste of it lingering in the air.

As night turns to day, as she watched the sun come up, morning as the human was still sleeping. The fractured stained glass above painted the ruined throne room in splinters of crimson and gold, the light catching motes of dust that swirled like constellations around Huor’s prone form. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, lips slightly parted as if mid-protest. She wondered what dreams plagued him, whether they were of battles lost or faces forgotten. Not that it mattered. Dreams were merely echoes, and echoes were her specialty.

She stretched, her claws kneading the cracked marble like dough. The storm had passed, leaving the air thick with the scent of damp earth and charred wood. Outside, the overgrown gardens dripped with rainwater, the remnants of a kingdom choked by time. She padded through the wreckage, her paws navigating the debris with practiced ease, past the shattered vases, the moth-eaten tapestries, the rusted helmets of guards who had died centuries before this human had drawn his first breath.

The chicken had been easy enough to find. It was plump, foolish, and slow, traits that had made it the last surviving bird in the palace’s abandoned coop. She’d snapped its neck with a single twist of her jaws, the crunch satisfyingly final. Now, she dropped it beside him with a wet thud, its feathers still damp from the rain. The bird’s glassy eyes stared upward, as if accusing him of its demise.

She leaned in, her muzzle hovering inches from his face, and exhaled sharply, her breath warm against his cheek, carrying the metallic tang of fresh blood. When he didn’t stir, she flicked her tongue against his forehead, the rough texture dragging across his skin like sandpaper.

"Awaken, eat and then I will guide you through these remains and the forest."

[the-heart-vigor]

The fireflies of his childhood...

He wished to see them once again because they were the light in the dark but hecwas too weak to wake up. He could not hear her voice and he could not understand where he was that moment. He was too heartbroken to hear anyone talk to him.

The fireflies died too soon...

And this was something that broke his heart. He only wished to ne more hopeful and learn from Morwen. She would say something wise if she was there. And Huor wanted to hear his older brother laughing because his laughter was hope.

But no hope was left for Huor, son of Galdor and Hareth.

He sighed as he was still unconscious. He only wanted to find a sign of hope in this darkness. If there was any. And he wished to know if he could escape slavery or death. He could not foresee the future anymore. And he hated that.

Why do the fireflies have to die?

Do they have to pay the price of beauty and hope? What does this mean? Huor could not tell. But he thought he was forsaken too soon. He was going to die soon because he was old now.

On the other hand, he felt to young, he had not reached his 30s. But he knew he was weary of life and this was a sign of death. Nothing seemed to really matter when he was away from Hurin and Morwen. Not when he was far away from Rian.

He wished to recall happiness but he knew thatbitvwas impossible to remember. Only sadness lingers, he thought. Sadness teaches valuable lessons, but only to those who are wise. And Huor doubted he was wise.

The fireflies die too soon. Why?

He always wondered about that as he regained consciousness. He thought h3 heard her calling him that moment but he was too dizzy to tell if this was just a hallucination. He feared this hallucination. It meant that he was losing his mind.

"Where am I?"

He asked with a muffled voice. He doubted he would get a response but he had to ask. Hoping that someone would respond to the question about this place. He didn't know what to do, he doubted he knew where he was.

[ulmondil]

“Rían in Early Spring”

I didn’t set out to draw this as an in-universe sketch made by Huor, but the thought came to me and I ran with it ♡

Hope I got the translation and Tengwar right. If I could have written it in Taliska, I would have. Alas!!

[fallesto]

She carefully assessed him, with the clinical precision of a scholar examining a rare specimen. His boots were caked in mud, his cloak frayed at the edges, and his hands bore the calluses of a man who had wielded a sword more often than a plough.

But it was his eyes that captured her attention: sharp with exhaustion yet alight with something stubborn. Not fear. Not reverence. Curiosity. How amusing. As her lips curled, not quite a smile, but something close. The corners of her mouth twitched with a trace of amusement, like a scholar observing an insect crawling over an experiment that it couldn’t possibly comprehend.

His exhaustion was palpable, and his desperation was almost endearing in its rawness. Yet here he stood, drenched and trembling, asking her if she was in danger. The absurdity of it prickled her curiosity like static before a storm.

“I am in no danger, my friend.”

As she circled him once more, her paws leaving no prints on the dust-choked marble despite the weight of centuries pressing down on her movements. The scent of him—salt, iron, and something stubbornly human, clung to her nostrils. She inhaled deeply, parsing his history in the way only a creature that had tasted time itself could.

His pulse thrummed visibly at his throat, a frantic rhythm at odds with the deliberate way he held his ground. She caught his scent, not just the rain clinging to his cloak or the sweat dried stiff against his skin, but the deeper, richer layers beneath. She inhaled sharply, the air parting around her muzzle like water around a blade.

There, beneath the musk of travel and the tang of old leather, was something unexpected: the faint, cloying sweetness of lilacs. Not the flowers themselves, but their memory, the ghost of a woman’s perfume lingering in the fibers of his tunic. A lover? A sister? Whoever she was, she had pressed close enough to leave her mark, and that intrigued her more than his questions ever could.

“You can sleep here.”

She licked her lips, a slow, deliberate motion that tasted the air between them. He was not a threat. Not a thief. Just a man drowning in his own fatigue, his edges frayed like the hem of his cloak. She tilted her head, studying the way his shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. Pathetic, really. Yet... intriguing.

“I’ll watch over you until morning.”

[the-heart-vigor]

Too tired for this life ... he was too tired and desperate. He only wished to die and forget. Life was something cruel now. He grew wary of everything and he wanted to die because he doubted he would see his beloved brother again.

Huor was dizzy and thirsty. So dizzy he could not hear her voice. He only wanted to lie down and sleep forever. He didn't want to wake up ever again. He had to find oblivion in sleep. He was too sad to carry on with his life.

Never again, he muttered.

Never again with pain or war. Hurin was already too far away, however, and his younger brother was thinking of dying soon. In a distant land, On foreign soil, inside a mansion. He had never seen a house like this, except his brother's house.

But his vision was blurry because he was so dizzy. He felt an acute pain. He thought he was anxious because he could not see his family and friends ever again. This thought hurt him too much. Too much to carry on.

Huor sighed and he fainted. He collapsed on the floor, not knowing where he was. He forgot the mansion. He could not hear her voice anymore. He wished he could fly away and forget everything and everyone.

But life was bleak...

He had to wake up and find a way back home. To reach victory, to find vengeance. He only wished to see Hurin again. Morwen and Rian too. A life with them was meaningful. He had lost purpose in life now, but he had to find that meaning again. Sooner or later.

But he was ill, too weak too stand up and go back home. Too dizzy to remember himself while he was still unconscious, on the floor. He could not hear the storm, he could not hear the thunder and the heavy rain.

Everyone seemed to dance behind a dark curtain in his sleep. As if a puppeteer was forcing them to dance relentlessly. Her voice echoed in the room but Huor couldn't hear her voice. He wished to stay while overcoming his illness and learn from her.

But he couldn't utter a word and he couldn't wake up. Weakness was a part of him. He had to accept this cruel fact. But he had to get better before he went back home. Until then, he had to wait until he eould fully heal.

[ulmondil]

‘This I say to you, lord, with the eyes of death: though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise. Farewell!’

Huor, The Children of Húrin

[outofangband]

I was writing about the motifs and sight and blindness in The Children of Húrin but one I didn’t mention is Huor with his foresight, speaking to Turgon a premonition of the birth of Tuor and then Eärendil (“ from your house, and from mine, a new star shall arise”) and then, in his last stand alongside Húrin, being killed from a venomed arrow in the eye

It’s such a gruesome death, notable even amid all this bloodshed, and I can’t help but to connect it to his proceeding quote and those overall themes

[pukiirice]

Men of the house of Hador

I really enjoyed making up their distinctive facial features hehe

[emerwenaranel]

I love Hurin and Morwen because I think that they're both very strong people. And I love Huor and Rian because I always thought that their differences made them perfect for each other. Tolkien did not write much about Rian and Huor but I always thought that Huor felt that Rian was much better than him, while Rian thought that Huor could be someone as strong as her father, yet much different from Belegund. If she had any memories of him, of course.

[magicalhideoutengineer]

Headcanon: Húrin and Huor named their sons after Turgon

In the Lost Road and Other Writings, the etymologies of Tuor and Turin were given as

TUG- *tūgu: Q tuo; ON túgo, N tû; Ilk. tûgh, tû; muscle, sinew; vigour, physical strength. Cf. name Tuor (older tūghor = tū-gor ‘strength-vigour’ see GOR). *tungā: Q tunga taut, tight (of strings, resonant); N tong; Ilk. tung.

TUR- power, control, mastery, victory. *tūrē mastery, victory: Q túre; N tûr. Cf. name Turambar, N Túramarth ‘Master of Fate’, name taken in pride by Túrin (Q Turindo) – which contains the same element tūr victory, +- indo mood (see ID).

By comparison, Turgon has the root of tur, and Turukáno contains the root turu, which according to Parma Eldalamberon 12 means "be strong" and can be translated to "victory commander."

Huor died before Tuor was born, but he might have discussed with Rían about their future child's name before he went to Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

[elronds-library]

Chronicle of Deaths Foretold [WIP]

by Melesta (@melestasflight)

They all knew they will die. Only one will live.

Teen, Major Character Death

Words: 988

[helyannis]

[Huor was] a swift runner; but if the race were long and hard Húrin would be the first home […]. There was great love between the brothers, and they were seldom apart in their youth.

[fallesto]

Slowly she stretched her back legs first, the joints popping audibly after centuries of stillness. The motion sent tremors through the throne room—loose tiles shifting, dust cascading from the ceiling in lazy spirals. Then came her forepaws, claws scraping grooves into the marble as she extended them with deliberate slowness. A rib cracked back into place; the sound echoed like a gunshot in the hollowed-out grandeur of the ruined hall.

She would yawn—an obscene display of fangs and pink tongue—before she shook herself from nose to tailtip. Her fur rippled like a living thing, dislodging centuries of dust that shimmered in the fractured light. When she settled, her golden eyes pinned him with a look that was neither hostile nor welcoming. Merely... assessing.

“If you wait the storm out, I fear you will be here for some time little human.”

As she yawned, her pink tongue curling against razor-sharp canines as she watched him kneel. She liked the respect—the way his damp cloak pooled around him like a supplicant’s robe, the way his fingers trembled slightly against the marble. Not from fear, she decided, but from exhaustion. Good. Respect should cost something.

She tilted her head, nostrils flaring as she parsed the layers of his scent: damp leather, stale bread from a roadside meal, and beneath it all, the iron-sharp bite of blood from blisters worn through his boots.

“You are lost! Follow me.”

She turned and walked towards the hearth, her paws navigating the debris-strewn floor with practiced ease. The fireplace, long cold, still held the ghost of warmth in its soot-blackened stones. With a flick of her tail, she nudged a crumbling log into place, then exhaled sharply—a spark of golden magic igniting the dry wood with a crackle. The flames licked upward, casting her shadow grotesquely across the ruined tapestries behind her.

As she sat turned and looked at him, her golden eyes half-lidded with regal disinterest. The firelight cast flickering shadows across her muzzle, sharpening the edges of her teeth as she spoke.

"Stay as long as you wish." She said, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through the cracked marble floor. "But don’t leave here when it is dark." Her tail flicked toward a broken vase near the hearth—its jagged edges still gleaming with flecks of gold leaf. A warning, not an invitation. As she narrowed her eyes, many humans come here, and many humans die here, outside these ruins, darkness, creatures, monsters, the riches within here, are all well and good, for those who wish to look and plunder, but they never, ever get far with what rests here, they just become more, bones thrown to the pile.

“Who are you.”

[the-heart-vigor]

The storm, it was always about the storm. It could signal battles, victories and defeats. Huor sighed in dismay at the memory battles lost. He had been defeated, sundered from his beloved brother, forced to flee to distant lands, unable to see his family again.

He took a step closer but he suddenly halted, lost in memories. Painful memories. He wished he could obliterate this terrible pain but he could not achieve oblivion. He was forsaken, desperate. He was still too far away from home.

"A wild storm is coming. But I doubt I can stay here for long."

His words were clear, his voice was loud. But he guessed she was right. He was going to stay in the mansion for a long time. He guessed he had to stay in order to recover from this terrible pain. Besides, the brewing dorm was too dangerous. He closed his eyes for a while until he stared at her, lost in memory.

"Are we safe here?" He asked.

He sensed something strange in this place, something that was otherworldly. Would he be able to escape? He did not know. But guessed that he had to stay there for a few days because he wanted to know more about her.

She was intriguing, he had to be honest about that. Maybe he had to know her and help her if she was in need of help. She was not a damsel in distress but he wondered why she was alone in such a horrible place.

Maybe she was not safe, maybe she wanted to hide from the outside world. Just like he wanted to escape from other people. "Why are you here? Are you in danger?"

He extended his hand, trying to reach her. Maybe she wanted to have a friend. Maybe not. He was there, however, and he could find out why she was alone in this derelict mansion. But he could not see her well due to his exhaustion.

"Is there somewhere I can sleep for tonight?"

He did not know the rooms' number but he had to sleep. Until he would wake up and remember everything that had happened to him. Conscience was tormenting him all the time. Only sleep could assuage the pain.