Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: Beyond Ice and Fire (#1416)
Author: Gypsum
Chapters: 6

Archive: Tolkien
Category: The Silmarillion
Description: The tale of how Barahir saved King Finrod Felagund in the Fen of Serech during the Dagor Bragollach and of Felagund's oath to Barahir. (all chapters posted)
Published: 02 Dec 2004
Updated: 05 Dec 2004
Warnings: Violence.
Type: Action/adventure
Characters: Finrod Felagund; Barahir


Chapter 1 - 1

When messengers from Dorthonion had ridden through the gates of Nargothrond warning that the Siege of Angband had broken, Finrod Felagund had prepared his army to travel from Nargothrond to aid Angrod, Aegnor, and their Edain allies in his northern vassalage. But he did not know the scale of devastation until Thorondor, king of the eagles, flew Nargothrond on the eve of his march bearing messages warning of rivers of fire destroying the forests of Ard-galen, of dragons, Balrogs, and thousands of Orcs pouring from Angband, assaulting the fortresses of the Noldor, breaking the leaguer about Angband. Morgoth’s attack was sudden: flames were bursting from the mountains and from fissures in the earth, and Orcs were bursting from the gates of the Thangorodrim. Dagor Bragollach they were calling this, the Battle of the Sudden Flame. The Noldor and their Sindar and Edain allies, who had emerged from the Dagor Aglareb victorious, were overwhelmed by the renewed might of Morgoth.

“Your brothers and the Edain are precariously holding the front lines on the slopes of Dorthonion,” said Thorondor. “But they have not the numbers to withstand Morgoth. The North is falling.”

“My forces in Dorthonion have never been great in number,” said Finrod as he prepared his army to hasten from Nargothrond. “We have always trusted the cliffs and heights to ward off the Enemy. Well have they served us during the Aglareb and the Siege.”

“But they are not unassailable. Not to dragons, Balrogs, and Orcs in multitudes you have never seen nor imagined,” replied the eagle gravely.

Many leagues lay between Nargothrond and Dorthonion, and Angband could overwhelm Dorthonion long before a host from Nargothrond could reach it. Finrod asked, “Can Fingon and Fingolfin in Hithlum not aid Dorthonion?”

“I do not believe so, my lord Felagund,” said Thorondor. “Fingon and Fingolfin have been driven back to the Ered Wethrin and barely hold their own realms. They cannot come to the rescue of Angrod and Aegnor.”

Finrod pulled shining mail tight across his breast and bound vambraces upon his forearms. “What of Hador’s people?”

“They are trapped behind the Ered Wethrin with Fingon and Fingolfin.”

“And the sons of Fëanor?”

“Maedhros barely holds the Pass of Anglon, and Celegorm and Curufin do not fare well in their realms to the East of Dorthonion.”

“Where is Turgon?” asked Finrod. His friend of old had one day vanished, with his daughter and many of his people, and none knew where he dwelt or even if he lived.

“That I cannot tell you,” said Thorondor.

Before Finrod could press him further about Turgon, for suspicions stirred within the king’s heart that Thorondor hid some secret regarding Turgon’s whereabouts, the eagle said, “I have done my duty, thus I bid you farewell, lord. Though your path seems dark, may a star light your road nevertheless.” Then he dipped his head to the king, a gesture of farewell, and leapt skyward in tempestuous flurry of feathered wings.

“Why do you think he would know of your cousin?” asked Finrod's chieftain, Edrahil. “None in Nargothrond, or indeed all Beleriand, have heard a word about Turgon for four hundred years. How is it you even know he still lives?”

“A feeling,” Finrod replied as he watched the eagle circle lazily into the sun until he vanished beyond Elven-sight. “That he lives and has a part to play in the Music of Ainur. But we cannot consider him at the moment. It is through the lands of Fëanor’s sons that Morgoth will besiege Beleriand, for from that direction little more than rolling downs lie between his lands and ours. I should hope they hold fast with all their strength or we will lose more than Dorthonion."

“If things in the north are as grim as Thorondor makes them, do you believe that Maedhros can hold the pass?” asked Edrahil glumly.

“We can only hope,” Finrod answered, and he had little hope. After all, Thorondor himself, lord of the Manwë’s eagles, flew in bearing tidings, and only in the direst of dangers did the eagles suffer to be messengers. Fearing what he would find in the North and grieving for the fall of the Noldor that he knew had arrived, he thrust his foot in the stirrup and swung his leg over the cantle. His silver cloak and golden hair streamed behind him like a mantle of fire. On his brow he bore a bright jewel of amber hues that captured the rays of the sun. His face was gray as he spurred the horse to the head of the army that had gathered before the great gates of Nargothrond and prepared to march across the long leagues of Talath Dirnen to the Pass of Sirion, but his host did not see the darkness in his eyes. To them he seemed a Vala come to Middle-earth to lead them, the youngest and fairest of the great lords of the Noldor, and their hearts were lifted.

But his was not. How much he would rather be elsewhere: playing his harp and wandering in peace in the woods or exploring the wonders of unknown country – anything other than going to war! For two hundred years after the victory of the Dagor Aglareb, peace had endured, but the princes of the Noldor had already known a taste of the strength and malice of Morgoth, and they knew peace would not last forever. Indeed Finrod had known it would not, for the Curse of Mandos would fall like a dark thundercloud on all the great Noldorin lords. Slain ye will be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief. Finrod reflected sadly that the noontide of Beleriand had passed and night would soon fall, and this was the beginning of the long and hard road foretold by Mandos.


Chapter 2 - 2

For two weeks the host of Felagund raced northwards across Talath Dirnen, the plain of Sirion. In the hills hidden towers guarded the plain, and hunters armed with bows and arrows patrolled the woods, hence no one passed through Finrod’s realm unseen. Finrod learned from the march-wardens he spoke to as they followed the River Narog upstream that small parties of Orcs had spilled into the plain and had been swiftly slain, but most of the fighting raged behind the mountains and in East Beleriand. For now, the mountains in the North and the Girdle of Melian on his Eastern borders protected all but his northern fiefs from Morgoth. May those defenses hold, he thought. If Morgoth should overrun Doriath, then what chance would Nargothrond stand? If even the Girdle of Melian had no power to constrain their foe, then the army of Nargothrond could not prevail against his forces.

Soon after they crossed the River Teiglin, they encamped for the night at the head of the Pass of Sirion, within sight of Tol Sirion and the glittering white tower of Minas Tirith that Finrod had wrought long ago and was now held by his nephew, Orodreth. After Finrod had retired to his tent, the sentries alerted him to the approach of a small, ragged party of Elves riding from the Northeast bearing the banners of the House of Finarfin.

Finrod descried the banners shining dimly in the light of the setting sun with the serrated teeth of the dark mountains at their backs. He did not stop to speak to anyone; he hastened from his tent and met the party from Dorthonion at the edges of his encampment. The sun had nearly vanished behind Ered Wethrin and darkness was shrouding the lands. Smoke from fires burning in Ard-galen made for a bloodied sunset of oranges, reds, and golds more brilliant than every jewel in Nargothrond. In the burnished glow of the sunset and the glimmering light of the torches, the faces of the strangers were wasted to look upon. Deep shadows lingered under their haunted eyes. Most were on foot and their horses, thin and lathered from hard going, bore the wounded.

“What news?” cried Finrod.

“King Felagund, I am Nóreg of Dorthonion,” said the foremost Elf. “We had not hoped for a host from Nargothrond arriving.” He bowed low to Finrod. “We were on our way there.”

“For what reason do ye seek Nargothrond?” asked Finrod. “What has happened? I see that things have gone ill with your party. What path brought you hither?”

“We fled through the Ered Gorgoroth,” whispered Nóreg. “I care not to tell of the horrors of that road lest they return to my mind.”

“Ye fled,” said Finrod. “From what?”

“From a great golden dragon leading a chain of balrogs. From the mountains spewing ash and fire, and from tens of thousands of Orcs. Any who did not flee to the mountains are most likely dead.”

Finrod did not imagine his fiery brothers turning and running, not even from dragons and balrogs. He feared the worst. “My brothers... What of them? What has befallen them?”

Nóreg cast down his eyes and took a shuddering breath. “Your brothers were slain on the northfacing slopes defending Dorthonion from what seemed every Orc in Angband.”

Grief seized Finrod’s heart. He grasped Nóreg’s forearm. “It cannot be!” he cried.

“Nay, my lord” said Nóreg sadly. “They fought bravely as befits those of the blood of Finwë, and but for them the hosts of Morgoth would have moved south. Thus far he is contained in Dorthonion.”

Finrod’s throat closed, and he said hoarsely, “Has all of Dorthonion fallen then, the Siege broken? Do we no longer hold any territory there?”

“The Edain, the people of Barahir and Bregolas, have not yet been utterly destroyed, at least when we took flight. Bregolas was killed alongside your brothers, but Barahir still holds the territory westward, as far as we know.”

“And Hithlum?”

“Remains unconquered.”

“Whither has the host of Angrod and Aegnor gone? Surely ye cannot be all that survived.” Finrod judged Nóreg to be leading not more than two-dozen Elves. If these were all who lived, then the situation of the North was far more hopeless than it had been two weeks ago when Thorondor had flown to Nargothrond bearing his tidings.

“Few escaped the fires and the dragons,” said Nóreg, “but those who did have scattered, to Nargothrond or to Orodreth at Tol Sirion, and a few to Barahir. Perhaps some made it to Fingolfin and to Hador and Húrin of Dor-lómin and perhaps as far as Doriath. But there is no strength left in the Eldar of Dorthonion, unless your host can repel Morgoth.”

Finrod turned to his chieftain, Túveren, who had come up behind him, and he said, “Find Nóreg and his company tents and care for the wounded. Also, send riders to Tol Sirion and Doriath to alert Galadriel and Orodreth.”

Then he turned away to seek the privacy of his tent and there sat long in grief. Pain welled up in his breast. The impetuous light of his two youngest brothers had been extinguished. A small corner of his heart refused to believe it and cried out in protest. They had been bold and bright, loving the thrill of battle far more than Finrod and Galadriel. In the darkest nights, their spirits never dimmed. Often they had been unthinking and rash, more like sons of Fëanor than the other children of Finarfin, but always they had shown high courage and never shirked their duty or betrayed their comrades. Their fiery spirits had fled to the Halls of Mandos as the Vala had foretold. There they would remain for eternity, consigned by the Curse to a fate of yearning for the shores of Valinor, an undeserved fate. The words of Mandos on the shores of Alqualondë cut Finrod like a sword. Their hands were unsullied by Teleri blood! Finrod cried out silently to the Valar, who remained deaf to him, it seemed. Why should they be the first of Finwë’s blood to fall after Fëanor?

Finrod rued his choice to pursue Fëanor to Middle-earth. Alas that Fëanor had forged those accursed Silmarilli and wrought such havoc. Alas that Finrod had not remained in Aman with his father. Alas that wanderlust had consumed him and driven him to follow Fëanor no matter the cost. He took long, shuddering breaths. The tears he could not hold back and silently they coursed down his cheeks.

At length Túveren came to Finrod’s tent. “I would leave you in peace,” he said, “But there is no time even to grieve. What must be done now? The mountains of Dorthonion make it an impenetrable fortress to all save the strongest armies, and if Morgoth has taken it, I doubt we have the power to assail it and reclaim it.”

Finrod brushed errant strands of hair out of his eyes and gazed at the sky just outside the tent flap. The same stars shone over distant Valinor, where peace yet reigned without death or treachery. They shone over Nargothrond, the hidden fortress in its deep canyon and over all the outposts in Finrod’s vast kingdom that was fated to be torn asunder. They shone over the graves of the dead on the high plateau of Dorthonion and over Fingolfin’s beleaguered army in Hithlum and Maedhros’ in East Beleriand. Even over Angband and the Iron Mountains, the stars shone, unquenchable lights that the darkness of Morgoth could not put out.

It was their duty to press on for Dorthonion, their duty to face Morgoth in battle and aid their allies. But Finrod never had loved battle, and now weariness beset him, the weight of death and of four hundred years of exile. Vengeance should be first and foremost in his mind, but it remained a distant afterthought and kindled no fire in his spirit. He yearned to sit by a quiet fire and play on his harp tunes of mourning for his brothers.

“My lord?” said Túveren.

“More than ever now, we are needed now in the North,” said Finrod, blinking back tears. A king must not let grief devour him on the eve of battle. “Come the first light of dawn, we will break camp and meet the host of Orodreth at Tol Sirion and then make for the Fen of Serech. From there we can decide whether Dorthonion can be retaken.”

“If it cannot?”

“We lend our aid to Fingolfin’s forces. Now leave me for a while. I would be alone.”

Túveren hesitated in the tent flap and did not flinch when Finrod glared at him. “My lord, have you eaten?”

“Nay, I am not hungry. Rouse me ere the sun rises.” A fey light gleamed in his eyes. Túveren withdrew from the tent and the flap fell shut, blocking the stars from Finrod’s view. He was a king, and so could not cease leading his people, not for any cause short of mortal injury or death, but he let himself grieve in the quiet night when no duties pressed him, for tomorrow there would be little time for mourning. He shivered with a sudden chill. Once he had foreseen that he would not live to see a Second Age of this world pass, and in that thought he found solace knowing pain would not be everlasting. Many years before, Galadriel had asked why he had not taken a wife, and the cold thought had assailed him that he too would swear an oath bringing his death. It had been a sudden flash of foresight, for the reason that he had not taken a wife was that the one whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she had remained in Valinor while he had gone into exile. But at that moment, he had known there would be nothing of his great realm for a son to inherit


Chapter 3 - 3

Túveren roused Finrod before the sun rose, and the king strode wearily out of his tent and looked upon the shadowy mountains to the East and West and to the cavernous defile of the Pass of Sirion. The sky was the dark, blue-gray hue of pre-dawn, and a faint bloody glow painted the horizon. The fires of Angband burning. Finrod could not find it in his heart to feel grateful that Nargothrond remained untouched; though he loved his kingdom and the caverns he had wrought with his own hands, he would gladly lay down his life for his brothers’ sake. He wished he had fallen in their place.

The camp was astir: horses whickered, weapons rattled, tents shook as they were collapsed. The Elves whispered amongst themselves. Finrod’s servants brought him his mail and weapons, and he girded himself for war, feeling as if his brothers still lived, the Siege had not broken, and this was a dream.

News of the fall of Dorthonion had spread through the encampment like a grassfire, and a grim mood had befallen all Elves in Finrod’s company. Even those amongst them who found excitement in battle were melancholy and solemn. The king renowned for kindness and light, the fairest of Finarfin’s sons, was grim and withdrawn. All who followed him and loved him could not help but share his grief.

Guilt for the bleak looks of his people struck him, and he sought to ease their sorrow with encouraging words. “Indeed Dorthonion has been overthrown and it burns my heart as it does yours,” he said, leading his horse out before his army and turning to address them. “Many valiant Noldor and Edain have fallen in its defense, and though they be dead, their heroism will ever be remembered in song and story. But Fingolfin and the men of Dor-lómin have not yet yielded to our Enemy and valiantly they fight on. There is aid yet Nargothrond can lend. Beleriand will not fall while those who would fight for it stand.”

The host departed the camp and made for the Pass of Sirion. They followed the River Sirion as it cut through the narrow vale between the heights of Dorthonion and the Ered Wethrin. The sheer cliffs were clad with pines and moss, the vale green and lush, the river swift. A mist veiled the defile and cold droplets of dew clung to cloaks, hair, leather, and weapons. Finrod feared an attack from the heights, entrapping an army in the narrow defile with no place to flee or fight. He hoped that Morgoth’s eye was fully occupied with watching Fingon, Fingolfin, Húrin and Hador, and the sons of Fëanor, and that the host marching from Nargothrond had not drawn the Enemy’s attention. But he knew this was a forlorn hope: the fortress of Orodreth on the isle of Tol Sirion guarded the river, and thus Morgoth would not be blind to the Pass.

Midway up the defile they came to Tol Sirion and Minas Tirith. In spite of the dreary mist and sullen gray sky, the tower and the fortified walls gleamed white. The drawbridges were down and Orodreth had assembled a small host to greet Finrod. Finrod and Orodreth embraced, and when Finrod looked into his nephew’s eyes, he knew that his messengers had delivered their ill news to Tol Sirion.

“My host will ride under your banners,” said Orodreth. Wrath shadowed his face, and his eyes shone like a cruel flame. Then they softened and he added, “Oh, Finrod, I know war is not your desire.”

“It never was,” said Finrod. “But to war I must go nonetheless.”

“Vengeance we will unleash upon the forces of Morgoth, and he will learn to fear the banners of Finarfin.”

Finrod smiled sadly. He wished he could share Orodreth’s rage; he wished for wrath to fuel burning hatred, a weapon against the Enemy, but only sorrow did he feel and he longed for peace and sweet music. But that was not to be his fate, for peace could never be the fate of the Exiles, the followers of Fëanor cursed by Mandos.

“Had I not gone with Fëanor, those who followed me would have remained in Valinor,” he said in a low voice to Orodreth. A single tear fell from his eye.

“You are not to blame, uncle,” said Orodreth. “Fëanor is, for bringing this doom upon us, and so is Morgoth for his treachery!”

They rode on through the dark pass, a narrow defile of verdant grass carved out by the River Sirion as it rushed through towering cliffs of red stone covered in moss. Finrod did not sing nor speak. He rode lost in thought, and the silence of their king grieved the host of the Noldor, for even on Helcaraxë he had never faltered. With song and words of hope he had held his people together and held back despair, though the hardship of the ice flows and betrayal of Fëanor had nearly brought their ruin. Then he was not yet weary with sorrow; he had believed he was leading his people to the free and starlit lands of Middle-earth, to the pristine, bright waters, green grass, and splendid mountains. But now he was leading them into a battle he feared losing, the beginning of a long war against a foe too powerful for any save the Valar themselves to defeat.

From the foremost ranks the clarion call of horns rang out. It echoed off the walls. It shook free the veil of dreary silence that covered the company. Suddenly bright swords and silver spear tips flashed through the flat, gray mist. Black arrows rained from the cliffs, falling amongst the legions at the vanguard of the army. Some flew into the river, others bounced off cliff walls, more slew Elves. Finrod’s archers shot arrows at the cliff tops, aiming futilely for concealed targets.

“Go, go!” cried Finrod. “This is no place for a battle. Fly!” The marshlands of the Fen of Serech were not far ahead. There in the open they stood a better chance of withstanding an assault than they did trapped between the cliff walls. As the host of Felagund swelled around him, he faced his hidden foes, glittering sword upheld, the light of the Silmarils shining in his eyes. “Ye who would destroy Beleriand flee to the Shadows!” he cried. “Flee while ye can, for every last one of ye will be hunted and slain! The curse of the Valar be on you!” From somewhere high on the escarpment, his ears caught raucous laughter. Three arrows flew at him. One he swatted away with his sword, the others whistled past his ears, diving into the ground near the horse’s hooves. The horse flung his head up and reared. He feared death more than did his fey rider. Let them come, thought Finrod. Let them hew me down as they did my brothers! But many will die first! An arrow glanced off the mail at his shoulder, leaving no injury. He turned his stallion and spurred him towards a wash, a narrow path of fallen rocks tumbling down the cliff face.

“My lord Felagund!” cried Fingal, a young captain of Nargothrond. “Ride on! Ride on!” He reined in his horse alongside Finrod’s horse.

“The doom of Mandos will come to pass,” said Finrod. “Slain ye shall be, and slain ye will be.” But lo! We will take as many of Morgoth’s vassals down with us and so be avenged!”

“That doom is not yet upon us!” pleaded Fingal. “Are you mad, my lord? You cannot single-handedly ride up there with naught but your sword and slay Orcs armed with bows and arrows!”

“You ride on. Tell Orodreth to aid Fingolfin if he can, but that Nargothrond must stand even if we must give up Hithlum and Dor-lómin,” said Finrod.

“You cannot do this, Lord Finrod,” insisted Fingal. “You will not avenge your brothers with rash action. The Orcs will hew you down before your sword touches a single one.”

An arrow pierced the throat of Fingal’s horse, and the animal crashed onto his side. The dying horse’s blood soaked into the ground about the hooves of Finrod’s horse, and the chestnut stallion danced backwards, flinging his head, fighting the restraining rein and leg. Fingal gave a dismayed cry as he staggered away from his horse, and a flailing shod hoof caught his leg and he fell. Finrod wrenched his mind from the madness that nearly drove him to end his life on the cliffs, for he would not leave his wounded captain to die. He grasped Fingal’s arm and helped him leap astride the stallion’s withers.

“Finrod, do not tarry!” cried Orodreth, who had ridden ahead.

The ringing of trumpets and cries of battle drew Finrod’s attention. He wheeled the horse about and leapt forth with the ranks of his rearguard. A furlong up the pass combat had broken out, for a legion of Orcs had poured down from paths in the cliffs and blockaded their escape. And still Orcs shot arrows from the high cliff tops. The army of Felagund fought with the ferocity and tenacity of the desperate. If they fell back now, they faced slaughter. Though they lost many, they hewed a path through the Orcs, and their foes retreated to the cliffs. Disquieted by the sudden attack, the Elves regrouped. Fear and uncertainty ruled their ranks.

“Felagund!” said Edrahil upon seeing his haggard lord riding forth from the rearguard, sitting double on his stallion with Fingal. Blood spattered Finrod’s face, his hair, his cloak, his horse, and it shone red on his sword. But he had come through the battle unscathed.

“What possessed you to delay?” asked Orodreth.

“Fingal’s horse was slain. We cannot linger here,” said Finrod, panting like a hunted fox. “More Orcs will follow!” If they remained, he feared they would be assailed by a tide of foes thrice greater than that they had beaten back and thrice greater than his own forces. Fingal was re-horsed on one of the remounts. Then Finrod gathered his remaining company and they fled from the Vale of Sirion while the moment of respite lasted.

The walls crumbled away, revealing swaths of forest charred by rivers of flame. The once-green flanks of the mountains were black, the air reeked of smoke, of burning wood, of decay and rot. Small fires flickered amongst the dead trees, sputtering in their death throes. Ard-galen, once rich and green and vibrant as the Pastures of Yavanna, was transformed into a bleak wasteland of ash and dust. So this is our doom, Finrod thought. So this is where the folly of Fëanor and my own wanderlust has led us? He did not see how victory could come from such ruinous defeat. The heights of Dorthonion were wreathed in smoke hanging like a malevolent cloud over the cliffs, a shadow casting eternal night upon Dorthonion. It was no longer the Land of Pines, but a forest under nightshade. Taur-Nu-Fuin.


Chapter 4 - 4

The sheer walls were gone, and the river, its energy pent up in the Vale of Sirion, spread across the wide Fen of Serech, boggy marshlands for half a dozen leagues in all directions. Rising higher than the sad lands of Ard-galen were the three peaks of the Thangorodrim, fierce and sheer, breathtaking and dreadful. Dark, formidable clouds hugged the summit.

The braying of horns and the beating of drums echoed across the Fen. A great host marched to the north, a teeming mass of Orcs numbering in the thousands advancing towards Finrod’s company at speed. He sat straight up in his saddle and scanned the flanks of the approaching army for a weak point, a place to cleave a way through; otherwise he would have no choice but to retreat or fight through a host far greater than his.

So Morgoth seeks to sunder us from Dorthonion and Hithlum. he thought. Dorthonion he doubted he could regain, but while he had a valiant army to command, he would not abandon Hithlum and Dor-lómin. He urged his company onwards, but the horses stumbled in the bogs, hindering the passage through the fens. The Elves on foot could pass swiftly through the meres, yet the riders would not abandon their steeds.

As they struggled on, the heaving mass of Orcs drew closer. The throbbing roar of their drums grew louder. Finrod’s heart pounded like the drums. He saw a wall of fierce spears and scimitars as impregnable as the face of the Ered Gorgoroth encircling him. Drums roared in his ears. The earth trembled, the stagnant water of the fens shuddered. With the strength of his will, he held his army together as terror and doom enclosed them. The Orcs taunted them, then rushed upon them. “Utúlie’n aurë! Utúlie’n aurë!” cried the hosts of Felagund. The day has come! The day has come! Like a terrible thunderstorm unleashing its fury, the legions of Orcs crashed into the Elves. Within minutes the foremost ranks fell beneath the savage onslaught.

Swarms of Orcs assailed Finrod. They saw that he was a high Noldorin lord and desired his death or capture above all the Elves in the Fen. He hacked and hewed at the teeming hordes, and more came, more than his sword could slay. Groping arms clawed at him, trying to pull him off the horse. Arms he hacked off. Vicious weapons besieged him every which way. Weapons he thrust aside with his sword. “Draw back, draw back towards Dorthonion!” he called. From horseback he parried swords, scimitars, and spears and cleaved through many a helm, yet they surrounded him like the waters of a rising flood.

A wall of Orcs drove a wedge between him and the main part of his army, which Orodreth still commanded. Finrod and the small company charged the Orcs sundering them from the rest of his army, but the might of their foes was nigh unbeatable. Finrod was forced to retreat with his company lest they perish. The Elves led by Orodreth struggled to fight their way to their king, but the Orcs were too many. Finrod descried a glimpse of his nephew furiously hacking his way through swarms of Orcs, but a swelling host came before Orodreth and pushed him back toward the Ered Wethrin.
Finrod could no longer see his folk beyond the teeming hordes. The Orcs had separated his small company from the rest and barricaded them against heights of Dorthonion. Pinned between the mountains and their foes, death or capture was inevitable. A vision of Maedhros hanging by his wrist from the Thangorodrim flashed in Finrod’s mind. He would rather die fighting in the fen than suffer as a prisoner or thrall of Morgoth.

But a spark of hope had not yet withered, and he had not yet resigned himself to the Halls of Mandos. The cleft through which the River Rivil tumbled might remain open. In a final, desperate act, Finrod urged his remaining company towards the heights, but the flood of Orcs swept round ahead of them, blockading their last escape route. A sortie of Elves, maddened with anger and fear, assaulted their foes and tried to hew a path to the Heights. They all fell beneath the scimitars. The others drew together in a defensive circle of swords and spears, but it did not avail them. One by one the throbbing mass of Orcs slew the Elves and closed in upon their ring. The waters of the fens churned scarlet with blood.

Finrod’s stallion screamed and reared high, striking out at invisible foes. Then he crashed upon his side in a bog, flinging Finrod into the muddy and bloodied waters. Finrod rolled clear of the thrashing horse and saw the black, feathered shaft of a spear jutting from the horse’s chest. Blood spurted from the wound as the animal struggled to rise, but he sunk to his knees. The eyes were rolling, showing the whites, and blood and foam were bubbling from the stallion’s mouth.

Then Orcs set upon Finrod before he could rise. Unable to get up for too many had beset him, he parried their scimitars while prone in the bog. A sudden pain burned his side. A spear, thrust through the mail, he wrenched from his ribs. He felt the wet and hot surge of blood soaking his tunic and cloak. He saw nothing but for the iron-shod legs of Orcs, heard nothing but for his thudding heart and the clash of steel. At once Túveren leapt forth in sudden onslaught. So fell and swift was his onset that the Orcs assailing Finrod withdrew, and Finrod had a moment to leap to his feet before once again they attacked him.

Túveren fell before him, his throat slit. “Túveren!” he cried. A handful of other Noldor, upon hearing his voice and learning their king yet lived, battled their way to his side. Standing over the body of his chieftain, Finrod savagely hewed down dozens of Orcs, but ten more attacked him for every one he killed. While he parried the blades of three Orcs, a fourth swung his blade cleaving open his left thigh, and his legs gave way. Into the bog he fell. Swiftly he scrambled to his feet as a blade intended for his throat cut into his shoulder.

Lamed and bleeding, he fought on with the final burst of strength of a dying wolf besieged by hunters. But his strength faltered. He was drenched in his own red blood. Neither his blade nor feet moved swiftly now; he knew he could not long stand. Death would find him; in the Halls of Mandos he would see his brothers, and the sorrows of this world would roll away like gray rain clouds; but in death the Curse remained and he would not meet Amarië again nor behold the fair green fields of the Pastures of Yavanna, the crystalline waves crashing upon white shores of Alqualondë, the bright lanterns guiding the way across Calacirya.

Just then a great horn sounded from the East. A ray of sunlight pierced the grim clouds. The Orcs assailing Finrod faltered and raised their eyes to the mountains at Finrod’s back. The Noldor too raised their eyes. From the narrow canyon through which the River Rivil poured into the Sirion, a host of Men bore down upon them, arrayed in helms and hauberks, the bright points of their spears gleaming in the sun.

With fury they assailed the Orcs, and the Orcs gave way in bewilderment. The Edain formed a wall of spears surrounding the beleaguered Elves. An Edain spear slew two Orcs attacking Finrod, and then Finrod at last fell to his knees in a shallow fen even as the battle between the Edain and Orcs stormed all around him. He made no effort to get up. The mortals had arrived too late to save his life. Then a Man was crouching before him, grasping his shoulders, saying, “Lord Finrod, rise... Quickly now!”

Finrod looked into the Man’s clear gray eyes. The face, the dark hair and beard, the high cheekbones and sharp nose, were familiar, but such pain and grief fogged his thought that the name was lost. Through the misty recesses of his mind he groped and the name Barahir came to his tongue. Barahir brother of Bregolas, son of Bregor. Now he must tell Barahir that his wounds were mortal and death now bore him to the Halls of Mandos, but before he could speak, Barahir and a doughty kinsman pulled him to his feet and supported him upon their broad shoulders. The spears of the House of Bëor encircled him.

Barahir’s men, valiant and fierce, battled their way through the hordes of Orcs. Like the waves in a fierce storm breaking on a rocky shore, the onrush of Orcs broke against the spears of the Edain. Like the waves, the Orcs kept coming, battering the ring of spears with force of numbers. Many mortals were slain, but the wall of Men withstood the onslaught. No Orc steel touched a wounded Elf in the center of the ring. Sluggishly they sloshed towards Dorthonion, wading through bloodied water, hewing through droves of Orcs.

They arrived within the shadows of the cliffs. The head of the pass was near. But Finrod warred with the will to live and the will to give up, to lie down in the marsh and let his fëa leave his broken body. Gently Barahir urged, “Not far now, my lord... You will not be harmed while I am here... Keep on going... Look, Felagund, the Rivil.”

At length the embattled company had cut their way through the Orcs and had their backs against the mountains. Up they climbed, ascending the steep stairway delved into the rock by the handiwork of Finrod’s own stonemasons long ago, before he founded Nargothrond in the South. Orcs surged against them, but the Men and a few Elves not yet injured fought fiercely, and the Orcs could not surpass the anger of the Noldor or the might of the Edain. Many Orcs fell. A small force of Barahir’s men leapt upon them and beat them down the narrow pass.

“I am a burden to you,” said Finrod to Barahir as the small sortie of men retreated up the stairs after slaying unnumbered Orcs. “Let me go and you join your men.”

“You are hardly a burden,” said Barahir with a smile. It was the first time Finrod had spoken since Barahir and his men charged the Orcs from the heights of Dorthonion. “Lending my shoulder to you is but a small price to pay for the great service you did to my people and for our friendship. And I do not think you can climb these stairs wounded as you are.”

The onslaught was lessening in fierceness, the Orcs retreating in greater numbers down the stairs. A few still besieged the ring of spears, but they fell impaled, and the remaining ones at last dispersed and withdrew down the steps. These joined the battle on the Fen between the remainder of Finrod’s host and the Orcs, though the Elves now were falling back to Minas Tirith at Tol Sirion. Finrod, from the heights of the cliffs, watched the wrath of Morgoth drive his people into retreat, and a black shadow engulfed his heart. He swayed and would have fallen in despair had Barahir not been holding him up. Then he kept struggling up the stairs, for he could not choose to die now, not after Barahir had risked his life and the lives of his men to rescue the Elves.


Chapter 5 - 5

At the summit of the cliffs was a network of caverns in Rivil’s Wall, a refuge hidden from sight. Waterfalls from the Rivil tumbling down the cliff faces covered the mouths of the caves like curtains of glass. Here Barahir and his men guided the wet, wearied, wounded Elves and at last let them rest in a large chamber wherein a small fire burned. Barahir eased Finrod to the dusty floor. Small rivers of blood cut through the gray dust. Both Barahir and his kinsman who had aided Finrod up the stairway appeared wounded, for blood coated their cloaks and tunics, and in dismay the other men in the caves cried, “Alas, lord, you have been injured!”

“Nay, I am unscathed,” said Barahir, “but the Elves here are not. Do not stare at me as if I were an Orc. Bring water and healing supplies forthwith!”
Now that the strength lent to Finrod by fear and fury had dissipated, pain now assailed him brutally in the quietude of the cavern. About him he heard the scuffle of footsteps, the din of voices. His limbs were immobile, pinned to the earth under waves of anguish. But death was not to take him yet; it would come another way, an oath fulfilled, a Doom broken.

Fingal, favoring his left leg on which the dying horse had smote him, hobbled over to Finrod and knelt beside him. He had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“My lord Felagund,” said Fingal. “You are sorely hurt.”

“But not yet marred beyond healing,” said Finrod weakly. He must look as if he was taking his very last breaths, for he beheld sorrow and fear in the eyes of the younger Noldo.

“Your fëa cannot pass into Valinor yet,” whispered Fingal, his voice shaking, and he held his hands over the gash on Finrod’s shoulder. Blood welled up between his fingers.

“Even if I die here, I shall not pass into Valinor,” answered Finrod. “Unless I am released from my doom, my houseless fëa is ever consigned to the Halls of Mandos.”

The young Elf, born in Middle-earth long after the Noldor came to Beleriand, looked at him in horror. “Lo!” he cried. “Tales told in dark nights are true then! Ye who followed Fëanor into Exile are doomed to suffer in the Halls of Waiting until the end of Arda.”

“Aye,” said Finrod, squeezing shut his eyes.

“It is not natural!”

Finrod did not answer, for he did not wish to have a debate about the retribution of the Valar and the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, deeds from long ago. His body hurt so grievously that the severing of hröa from fëa -- as horrific as that was to the Eldar -- seemed a lesser torment than his present anguish.

Barahir appeared suddenly and joined Fingal kneeling over Finrod. “My Lord Felagund,” he said. “I shall be greatly dismayed to have gone through the trouble of rescuing you only for you to die here.”

“Alas, instead I must hearken my kinsman’s grievances about words and deeds that would be ancient to you,” said Finrod.

“Well, better that you are alive and can hear his grievances,” replied Barahir with a smile. “Grievances to a corpse would be for naught.”

Together Fingal and Barahir eased off the bloodied chain mail, which had saved the king’s life, for he had wounds that would have been mortal otherwise. With deft fingers Barahir probed the deep punctures and gashes, and he said, “Be glad you are of Elf-kind. These would have slain any Man.” To Fingal, he queried, “Your people have skills in healing that far surpass ours. What must be done?”

“We have no lembas with us, and that would give him strength. But I think his own strength will be enough if we cleanse and bind the wounds.”

Whatever cloth could be gathered they pressed against the deep stab wounds in his shoulder, his side, and his leg to staunch the bleeding. When the blood coursing from the wounds ebbed, they bathed them with water brought up from the stream and alcohol brought from other chambers, and then they bound the gashes with clean cloth. Fingal said, “I am a better warrior than healer.”

“You are surely a better healer than any here,” said Barahir. “Our healers are either slain or otherwise cannot come to our aid. Never have I met one of your folk entirely ignorant of healing or dispossessed of whatever magic you have and we do not.”

Fingal looked doubtful, but his hands he pressed against Finrod’s wounds and a lament he chanted, a verse about the passing of daylight, the breathing of the ocean, the waves washing away tears and memory. The Men shivered and looked upon him in wonder as he sang. Finrod felt a slight easing of his pain. But Fingal trembled, and his face was pale and wan. “Fingal,” Finrod said, “You have done more than your duty. Tend to your own hurts and rest a while and do not trouble yourself about me.” With a weary bow, Fingal left the king to use his remaining strength tend others and then rest himself, for he had not escaped the Fen wholly unharmed.

Barahir, who remained at Finrod’s side, said, “There are other duties I must attend to. Will you survive if I leave you for a little while?”

Finrod answered, “I had more strength in me after crossing the Helcaraxë than I do at this moment, for I have left much blood in the Fen and on you, it seems, but I am more fatally wounded in spirit than body.”
Barahir stared at him uncomprehending.

“Angrod and Aegnor were slain defending Dorthonion,” explained Finrod, “I had led my force to the North to aid them, but came too late.”
“Ah, my heart grieves for your loss,” said Barahir, squeezing the uninjured shoulder. But he remained kneeling at the Elven-king’s side, a pensive look in his gray eyes.

“Attend what duties call you,” said Finrod. “What you heard me tell Fingal was no falsehood: my time to depart this world has not yet come, and I will live to return to my kingdom.”

Then Barahir left him for a time to attend to his own people and gather what news he could of the Dagor Bragollach. Utterly spent Finrod lay as one dead upon the cavern floor, and a fever from the poisons of Orc weapons burned hotter than the fires that had destroyed Ard-galen. Dreams misty and vague like fog rolling across the River Narog plagued Finrod’s fevered sleep. Once he glimpsed across crystal waters the white shores of Valinor and the glowing beacon of Tirion upon Túna. His heart lifted and he reached for it, but then the fog rose, obscuring his sight, engulfing shining Valinor. Of his many fevered dreams, only the vision of Valinor was unsullied by fog and darkness. For many hours the fever boiled in his blood, but he was a Noldo of great might and his strength slowly seeped into his body to defeat the fever.

As the sun chased away the moon, Barahir returned to the cave with food and drink for the Elves. He roused Finrod from his stupor, begging him to eat or at least drink. Finrod, exhausted from embattling fever and aching in every limb, had no appetite for food, but he took water from Barahir and then lay down again. After feeding those Elves who would eat, Barahir sat down at Finrod’s side counting the king’s shallow breaths. A Man who bore wounds like those of Finrod would be dead. Though Finrod’s face remained fair as the morning light, blood and mud caked and matted his golden hair and his blue and silver raiment. His skin was sallow and bloodless, his breast rose and fell slowly and unevenly.

At midday, he opened his eyes while Fingal was tending to the wound in his side, and he said to Barahir, “Have you not other duties?”

Barahir answered, “Nay, my lord.”

“I cannot imagine.”

“It is my duty to repay the debt of my people to you.”

“That you have done ten times over,” said Finrod. He shut his eyes, but he thought of oaths: the oath of Fëanor and his sons binding them to pursue anyone who possessed a Silmaril unto death. That oath he became enmeshed in when he followed Fëanor from Alqualondë and was thus bound beside all the Exiles to the Curse. If Fëanor had been less arrogant, impulsive, and foolish, the West -- in life or death -- would not be barred to the Elves of Finarfin’s and Fingolfin’s houses who had followed him. Then with fondness Finrod recalled the four and forty years of the loyal service and friendship of Bëor. The debt that Barahir had spoken of was repaid long ago. The only debt now needing repayment belonged to Finrod.

He wondered if the strange glimpse of Aman through feverish mist had been another moment of foresight, a beacon guiding him across a treacherous stone path already laid before his feet. As a healing sleep once again devoured his thought, he wished wistfully that Galadriel were here; she was better than he at understanding such things.


Chapter 6 - 6

For two days Finrod did not move nor eat, but on the second day, clouds sitting upon the mountains dissolved and the rays of the rising sun shone into the caves, dappling the gray walls with points of jeweled light. Finrod stirred and found that Barahir had gone. A small measure of his strength had returned. No longer did pain like iron chains bind his limbs to the chamber floor. Such was the power and gift of the Eldar that their bodies healed quickly.

He sat up. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he waited for the Man’s return. An oath I too must swear, he had once said to Galadriel many years ago. And what better reason was there to swear an oath of friendship than for valor in battle and for saving one’s life? He sighed and watched the dance of the small fire.

After he had done what he must do here, he would lead his remaining followers back to Nargothrond. Both he and they were too dispirited for further war, even should the Enemy leave these caves unspoilt and the Eldar in peace, and should they be granted time enough here for their wounds to heal. The Elves who had survived the Fen looked more forlorn and wearied than Finrod had ever seen them. He could ask no more of them. The forces of his brothers were scattered like leaves before a wind and beyond his aid, and his company was so weakened that he doubted he could lend much strength to those still fighting: Fingon, Fingolfin, the Men of Dor-lómin, and Fëanor’s sons.

“My lord, you look as if your health is returning,” said Fingal. “Do you feel as if it is?”

“Aye,” Finrod replied. “All my wounds will heal soon enough. What of the others?”

“Many fell in the Fen, but of those Barahir’s men rescued none have been lost, though many are grievously hurt. We are greatly in their debt.”

More than you know, thought Finrod darkly. He looked about the chamber and there saw the survivors, wearied, many still coated with dirt and blood, troubled and dejected. “As soon as we are hale enough to travel,” he said, “we return to Nargothrond.”

“Then we will not aid further in the battle?”

Finrod shook his head. “We have lost too many. Better that we should live and regroup for a time in Nargothrond and face Morgoth another day.”

Dismay shadowed Fingal’s face, and Finrod perceived the young Elf’s thoughts; he desired vengeance, not defeat. The young are swift to anger, slow to gain wisdom, thought Finrod. Not even for vengeance would Finrod sacrifice the remainder his kingdom in a losing battle – Elves captured alive would be tortured to reveal Nargothrond. At least Fingal would not gainsay his king; he swallowed his embittered thoughts and said only, “Are you hungry, my lord? Nothing have you eaten for three days.”

The poison of grief and of Orc arrows had ebbed enough to revive Finrod’s interest in food. He ate some of the fruit and dried meat that the Edain had left in the cave overnight and found a little more strength there.

Some hours later Barahir returned to the cavern and was delighted to see Finrod and the others awake. Smiling joyously he knelt before the king, crying, “The Valar be praised! We feared our rescue was for naught.”

“If ye had saved even one of us from death or capture, it would have been for more than naught. But we shall be taking our leave soon,” said Finrod.

“Whither will ye go?”

“Back to Nargothrond. My people have not the heart for battle and we have come hither too late. Dorthonion has fallen, and we have been scarred by the pain of loss; only our sorrows could we offer to Hithlum and Dor-lómin, and that is a commodity they do not need more of.”

Barahir nodded and said that whenever Finrod and his people were ready to depart, he knew of a secret path to Tol Sirion, wherein they could reconvene with the remainder of their company and Orodreth. While the Elves had convalesced in the chambers for the last two days, he had learned from his Men in the field that Orodreth had fled to his fortified isle pursued by Orcs, but the river and the walls of Minas Tirith had withstood an attack, and from there Orodreth’s host had driven the Orcs back to the Fen.

“If ye wish to avoid more fighting, ye ought to hasten to Nargothrond,” Barahir concluded grimly. “Also I have learned that more legions pour forth from Angband, and Morgoth’s most dreaded servant commands them. Sauron, a Maia of great power. I think your people call him Gorthaur.”

Finrod bowed his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. “Your small force stands no chance, then. Will you remain here?”

“These are our lands. We shall die defending them rather than flee.”

While the loss of his brothers still felt like a bleeding wound, Finrod had awakened from long sleep feeling like life was again bearable. Always he had loved life: the softness of green grass, the breath of the ocean, the song of the river running beneath his fortress, the sculpted trees; the smooth feel of harp strings against his fingers. But sorrow tempered joy – the doom of the Noldor, forgotten after the Aglareb, would overtake Beleriand. Who would survive to see the next Age? Not Finrod Felagund.

In spite of his wounds, he rose to his feet. The gash in his thigh came close to the bone, a grievous wound even for an Elf, and the leg would not yet bear his full weight. A disturbing sight to behold he was, the fairest of the Eldar limping, bereft of grace in his movement. Men eyed him askance and his own folk cringed.

“Barahir,” he said, “is there a chamber where you and I can speak in private?”

He limped after Barahir into a chamber dimly lit by a single torch on the wall. There the Noldorin king knelt down on one knee before the Man who held no royal title, saying, “By the powers of Manwë and Varda, I swear to thee an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need, to thee and thine heirs and kin unto death or the ending of the world.”

Barahir stared astonished. “My lord Felagund,” he said and then words failed him.

Finrod bore a ring of twin serpents, their eyes made of emeralds, their heads meeting under a crown of flowers that one upheld and the other consumed. It was the badge of the House of Finarfin. This he removed from his finger, and he took Barahir’s hand in his own and placed the ring in his palm. “As a token of my oath I give to you this ring, the symbol of my house. In Aman it was made ere the making of those accursed jewels, the destruction of the Two Trees and the death of my grandfather and the rebellion of fell Fëanor. To Aman it shall not return. Let it be an heirloom of your House, though seas may swallow these lands and battles will rage hither. Let the bond between the Edain and the House of Finarfin not waver no matter what fell deeds befall Middle-earth.”

Releasing Barahir’s hand Finrod rose to his feet, and Barahir gazed at the ring in his palm, riveted. The emerald eyes of the serpents glittered in the torchlight. Then Barahir raised his eyes to the face of the Elven-king, and he said, “King Felagund, but for your kindness we should be stumbling about in the dark. Out of the gentleness of your heart, you played your harp and spoke with my grandfather. Ever you have been our friend and our ally, and there is no friend for whom I would not put myself at peril to rescue from death or worse.”

“You cannot gainsay me,” said Finrod. “The oath is sworn, but let your heart find peace in knowing that I do not swear by the Valar needlessly.” Bound as he was now to Barahir and all his kin, Finrod felt a lightness seeping into his heart. He had foreseen deliverance for himself: an oath in the throes of his death breaking the bonds of Mandos’ curse.
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