Vairë's Tapestries by Fiondil

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Chapter 6: CONTEST: Power Play

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CONTEST: Power Play

SUMMARY: In any contest there is always a loser and a winner. One elf learns that losing is not necessarily a bad thing.

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‘There you will be sung

you’ll be sung and chanted....

Until your hands cannot turn

until your feet cannot move.’

— The Kalevala, 3:45-50

They knew they were in trouble almost immediately when slavering wolves came out of the woods and surrounded them, forcing them to go west rather than north. To Tol-in-Gauroth they were brought and Finrod grimaced at the sight of his tower of Minas Tirith, now in the hands of Morgoth’s greatest and most evil lieutenant, Sauron. A miasma of evil veiled the island and none of them were unaffected, though Beren was the worst off.

Edrahil surreptitiously took the Mortal’s arm to keep him from stumbling. "Steady now," the Elf whispered. Beren could only nod, fighting with all his strength not to vomit and give them all away.

They were brought before Sauron in the great hall of the tower. This had always been a tower of guard but even so it had been of elvish make and so form and function blended in pleasing ways, making it less grim than a typical Mortal tower. Now, however, Finrod cringed inwardly at the decrepitude and ruin of what had once been fair. Tapestries that had graced the walls, lending both color and warmth, hung in tatters, their images faded with a film of filth. Bloodstains were splattered across the flagstones, and the Elves wondered grimly whose dead comrade’s blood they were treading upon.

"Ah..." Sauron made his presence known as he appeared sitting upon a throne of blood-darkened stone. The Elves steeled themselves, fearing what would come. Edrahil kept close to Beren, for Finrod’s captain saw the Mortal as the weak link. If anyone was going to break down before the Dark Maia it would be he. Edrahil’s nine companions kept close to them both while King Finrod stood in the front, confronting Sauron. Each of them prayed that the king’s enchantments hiding their true forms would hold under the terrible scrutiny of Morgoth’s Lieutenant.

The Maia stared at them for a long moment, doubt gnawing at him. His wolves surrounded these strange Orcs who had failed to come to him as was his command to bring him news of all their deeds. "So, what are your names?" he asked them suddenly. His voice was silky smooth, almost gentle, and its very gentleness sent shivers of dread up their spines. "Who is your captain?"

"Nereb and Dungalef and warriors ten, so we are called, and dark is our den under the mountains," Finrod replied in a raspy voice and the others looked upon him with wonder at the misdirected accuracy of their king’s words. "Over the waste we march on an errand of need and haste," Finrod added. "Boldog, our captain, awaits us there."

Sauron appeared to ponder Finrod’s reply and the Elves held their collective breaths. The Dark Maia shifted his weight upon the throne, resting his left elbow on its arm and holding his chin in his hand. "Boldog, I heard, was lately slain warring on the borders where Thingol and his folk cringe and crawl beneath elm and oak in drear Doriath. I find it rather strange that ye who claim to be hurrying to Boldog’s side are unaware of his death."

To that they had no answer. Finrod was at a loss for words that would allay Sauron’s suspicions. The Maia saved him the trouble. His demeanor became suddenly frigid as he straightened in his throne and glared at them with dark intent.

"Come," he demanded. "Whom do ye serve, Light or Mirk? Who is the maker of mightiest work? Who is the king of earthly kings, the greatest giver of gold and rings? Who is the master of the wide earth?" He stood now, his stance one of great imperiousness as a dark veil seemed to cover him, making him even more menacing than before.

"Repeat your vows, Orcs of Bauglir!: Death to light, to law, to love! Cursed be moon and stars above! May darkness everlasting old that waits outside in surges cold drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun! May all in hatred be begun, and all in evil ended be, in the moaning of the endless Sea!"

The Elves and Beren reeled at the force of Sauron’s will lapping against their own and the very sound of the oath was as a rotted corpse to their fëar — a cloying, sweet blasphemy from which they would have fled had they been able. Sauron resumed his seat, a faint smile on his still fair face. "Ye are not what ye appear, I deem. There is something… elvish about ye, a glamour I cannot pierce."

"We are but Orcs," Finrod said abjectly, hoping he sounded convincing, but fearing he wasn’t convincing enough.

Sauron shook his head. "I think not." Then his demeanor changed again and his eyes flamed with remembered starfire as he gazed upon them. Darkness, black and fell, surrounded them and through the pall of eddying smoke they saw only those eyes, mesmerizing and profound in their depravity. Instinctively, the Elves moved closer, keeping Beren in the center. Finrod never moved as Sauron began to Sing:

"Veils of enchantment will I pierce,

open before my eyes what hidden be,

revealing treachery, uncovering betrayal.

Let this glamour be undone…"

They all found themselves reeling, even Finrod, who regained his senses sooner than the others. Suddenly he began to counter Sauron’s magic with his own Song of Power:

"Let thy singing be stayed, all spells to resist.

Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power.

Changing and shifting of shape gives us leave

to escape to freedom,

elude snares and broken traps,

the prison ope’d, the chain snapped."

Edrahil motioned to his companions. "We must protect the Mortal from the energies that are being unleashed," he commanded, deciding that the combatants were no longer aware of anything but their contest so it was safe enough to speak thus. The wolves which had surrounded them had slunk away at the first note of their master’s Song, not wishing to be caught up in the maelstrom that was sure to follow.

Beren grimaced. "I am no babe who needs coddling…."

"Nay, mellon nîn," Edrahil said, "it is no slight against thee. Thy mortal frame was not meant to withstand such power. Thou canst not survive the forces that are being unleashed."

Beren nodded reluctantly and the Elves gathered even closer, forming a tight circle and shielding him whose coming to Nargothrond had brought them to this plight. They stood in silent awe as they witnessed a battle of Words between Sauron and their lord.

Backwards and forwards their Songs swayed. Sometimes Sauron had the upper hand and Finrod would reel and founder for a moment before gathering himself and fighting with more power, bringing to fore all the might and magic of Eldamar into his words. The room brightened to incandescence as the combatants unleashed their spells. From the deepest dungeon to the highest parapet their Songs were felt. Many an elven prisoner languishing in dungeon drear knew that something momentous was happening and wondered what it might portend.

Softly in the chthonic gloom they heard the birds singing in Nargothrond and the sighing of the sea beyond. And further still unto the West they heard the waves brush the pearl-strewn strands of Eldamar. Many of the Elves held in prison smiled at the images Finrod’s magic evoked.

Then the gloom gathered and the images grew darker, as Sauron sang of night falling on Valinor. Red blood flowed beside the sea where the Noldor slew the Falmari, stealing their swan ships from their lamplit havens. Even as Sauron sang the last note of betrayal and kinslaying, the wind rose to a wail and the wolves howled. There was a rumble of thunder that shook the very foundations of Minas Tirith and a vast roar nearly overwhelmed the Elves and Beren cowering in the hall.

Then, Finrod collapsed.

Suddenly their disguises melted away and they stood revealed in their own fair shapes. The elves cowered around Beren, hiding him, fearing what might happen should the Maia realize that the son of Barahir stood before him. Gazing triumphantly upon them, Sauron’s smile could only be called evil as he ordered his Orc guards to bind the prisoners and throw them into the deepest dungeon. One of the brutish creatures did not even bother to truss the still senseless Finrod, but grabbed his golden locks and hauled him away by his hair, laughing as he went....

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"I failed them. I wasn’t strong enough," Finrod said dejectedly as he sat in one of the gardens of the Reborn. His arms were wrapped around his knees as he rocked himself, trying to find an elusive comfort. The memory of his battle with Sauron had come suddenly and without warning and he became hysterical, so much so that his Maiar attendants called upon their lord; Findaráto was too much for them to handle on their own.

Now he and the Lord of Mandos sat in an arbor as evening drew nigh and night blooming jasmine began to open and give off their sweet scent. Somewhere a nightingale sang a melancholy tune and crickets chirped around them. Finrod paid no heed to any of it, his eyes closed, his expression one of defeat.

Námo smiled sympathetically. "Your spells were not all unavailing, you know," he said gently.

Finrod opened his eyes to give the Vala a hard stare. "What do you mean? I lost."

The Lord of Mandos nodded. "From a certain perspective you did, and quite spectacularly I might add, but that is not what I meant."

"I don’t understand," Finrod said, looking equally puzzled and frustrated by the Vala’s words.

"Sauron never learned the names of any of you, nor did he ever discover your purpose. As much as he pondered and bethought the riddle you and Beren and the others in your party presented him, he could never learn the truth. In your Song did you not sing thus?" Námo closed his eyes and Sang:

"Let secrets be kept with strength like a tower.

Let trust be unbroken, as we battle against power...."

Finrod went still and even the nightingale ceased its warbling as the Vala sang. His voice was beautiful beyond endurance and though Námo Sang only that much and no more, Finrod felt as if he had been given an immeasurable gift and he could feel tears coursing down his cheeks unheeded. All he could do was nod.

"You wove into your Song strength and endurance to remain steadfast in resolve against evil and your companions benefitted from it," Námo said. "To the very end, none betrayed you and Beren. I would think that is something of which to be proud."

Finrod sighed, still looking downcast. "They must hate me," he whispered.

"Who?" Námo asked in surprise, not expecting such a statement.

"Edrahil and the others," Finrod answered.

"They do not hate you, Child, nor did they ever blame you. Beren, perhaps, they blamed but their oaths to you forbade them to betray him, for to do so would be to betray you, and that they would never do."

Silence stretched between them as the night deepened. A breeze wafted through the arbor, caressing Finrod’s locks. Finally he looked up at the Vala who sat in a patience born of eternity. "I lost," he reiterated.

Námo nodded. "And won, for in your losing you gained a second chance at Life, you and your ten liegemen. In the end, it matters not that you lost, it only matters that you lost well, that you strove against evil and did not succumb to it."

Finrod nodded and then sought the comfort of Námo’s embrace. "It was so terrible...." he started to say, but Námo hushed him.

"I know," he said quietly as he gently rocked him, "but it’s over now and you’re safe." He softly began singing an ancient lullaby as the heavens above turned indigo. Varda’s stars blossomed forth and Isil rose out of the Sea. Tilion looked down from his great height at the erstwhile King of Nargothrond sleeping in the arms of the Lord of Mandos and smiled.

‘From time to time in the eyeless dark

two eyes would grow, and they would hark

to frightful cries, and then a sound

of rending, a slavering on the ground,

and blood flowing they would smell.

But none would yield, and none would tell.’

—Lay of Leithian, 7: 2232-37

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Bauglir: (Sindarin) A name for Morgoth meaning ‘the Constrainer’.

Falmari: (Quenya) ‘Wave-folk’; a name of the Teleri.

Note: Much of this, particularly the oath Sauron demands of Finrod and his companions, is adapted from The Lay of Leithian, Canto VII, ll. 2080-2237, found in The Lays of Beleriand, HoME III.