Beyond Ice and Fire

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 The king renowned for kindness and light, the fairest of Finarfin’s sons, was grim and withdrawn.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.