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Spectrums  by Eärillë

Genres: Family, Humor

Rating: G

Reference: “ … Húrin was by three years the elder, but he was shorter in stature than other men of his kin. … Huor his brother was tall, the tallest of all the Edain save his own son Tuor only, and a swift runner; but if the race were long and hard Húrin would be the first home, for he ran as strongly at the end of the course as at the beginning.” (The Silmarillion, Chapter 21: The Tale of the Children of Húrin.)

Warning: mixed point-of-views

Notes: Set in Brethil, before the battle with orcs that later brought the two brothers to Gondolin. Húrin was 16 years old and Huor was 13.

Summary: Huor was late, again. Consequently, Húrin got the consequences. But was it truly Huor’s fault?

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Haldir stood at the head of the dinner table, frowning. He repeated counting the members of his household present for the meal, and outright scowled. Before he could order for a search party, however, a knock on the open door of the dining hall caught his attention.

And there stood Húrin, alone, all sweaty and dirty. Before he could say anything, though, the youth blurted, rather defensively, “We were racing through the woods, Uncle. Huor is going to be here soon, I suppose. I was only several yards ahead of him.”

Haldir’s scowl did not soften. “Racing through the woods?” he repeated dangerously.

Húrin stepped back in dismay. “We did not go too far, Uncle. And the scouts did say that the orcs are two days away still,” he said a little desperately, trying to defend himself. (He did not want to be kicked out from the rank of warriors prepared to challenge the oncoming orcs on the grounds of irresponsibility, after all.)

And just then, Huor came skidding in, standing beside his elder brother, huffing and puffing and even more dirty than Húrin was. “Sorry, Uncle!” he squeaked, breathless and worried by their uncle’s forbidding countenance. (And now Húrin also frowned at him, displeased and disgruntled.)

Well, no more races, then, Huor thought, at least until their uncle were not so worried about orcs ambushing them out of nowhere. But if Húrin was so displeased of bearing the brunt of the chiftain’s wrath, why had that brother of his not set up a race he might have more chance of winning?

Húrin glared sulkily at him. Huor could barely stifle a vindictive grin.

And when their vexed aunt Glóredhel shooed them to the bathing house, he took the chance and took off on his best speed. Time for vengeance…





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