Oath Renewed by Inglor

Chapter One

Gildor walked the corridor to his liege’s home. With disgust and horror, he ran the night’s events over in his mind. His king had abdicated and the Feanorians had all but usurped his throne. Orodreth had reluctantly received the Crown from his brother. Only ten of the many Nargothrondrim stood with the King in his moment of need. Gildor cursed himself and his countrymen for their cowardice. That was the reason for this walk. He was going to volunteer to go with the Man and the King on their quest. He reached the door to Finrod’s chambers and recognized the guards as two of those who had volunteered. As he approached, they moved to bar the way. Gildor stopped and regarded them. He met their defiant looks with one of his own. “I come to join you, please let me pass.” The guards exchanged an expression of veiled disgust but let him pass, not even deigning to open the doors for him. He smiled secretly to himself, thinking he would have done the same had their positions exchanged. Swinging the heavy doors open, he strode purposefully into the room. He followed the sound of voices to a large receiving room. The elen were in various stages of preparing for their journey. All were armed and he could see hints of mail peeking through the dappled gray traveling clothes they wore. All turned to him as he entered the doorway and conversations abruptly halted, he even noticed a few hands reflexively go to sword hilts. Have things turned so ill that they see me as a threat? Taking in the defiant, hostile looks, Yes he replied sadly to himself. He did not personally know most of these ners. They were mainly commoners and soldiers. He recognized a ranger from an eastern outpost that had once been under his command. He also recognized his friend, the King’s Steward, Edrahil. It was upon Edrahil that he fixed his gaze upon. Though speaking to an equal, Gildor stiffened like a soldier addressing a superior, “Sir I come to redress my cowardice, may I speak with the King?.” Edrahil raised an eyebrow and regarded him for a moment. “Finrod is conferring with the Lord of Dorlomin at the moment.” “Things were apparently worse than I had imagined,” Gildor noted. Edrahil never referred to the King of Nargothrond by his father name only. He was one of the King’s closest advisors and always preceded Finrod with Lord or King. “Aye that they are my reluctant friend,” Edrahil answered with little venom but some disappointment. Gildor winced slightly at the statement but continued, somewhat subdued, “I would speak with the King, Edrahil.” Not wishing to further humiliate his friend, Edrahil nodded and turned to walk to a door at the back of the room. He knocked and entered. A moment later Finrod, dressed similarly to the Volunteers, appeared He looked tired and but oddly at peace. The Lord of Nargothrond strode to him with purpose. Gildor saw no accusation in his eyes, but he did see a stern resolve that he had only seen twice before. As Finrod approached, Gildor kneeled and bowed his head. “Forgive me my king, I am shamed for my cowardice. I would redress that lack of fortitude now by begging your leave to join this quest.” Finrod looked down at the Ranger captain before him. After a moment he gripped his arm, pulling him to stand. “I am no longer your king, Gildor, there is no need for this formality.” Gildor hesitantly met Finrod’s eyes, “You are still my king, sire.” Finrod gave a weary smile and the rest of the ners in the room shifted. “As I have told those here, I am now just Finrod.” He held up a hand when Beren, who was standing a few paces behind him, began to protest. “Please, Barahirion, we have been over that issue at length” Beren reluctantly swallowed his words and looked down forlornly. Finrod regarded Gildor again. He studied him for a moment as if weighing options. Abruptly, he stiffened slightly and sternly said, ”No.” A look of confused horror crossed Gildor’s face. This was not the reply he expected. He started to protest but the King continued, “This quest shall be of twelve only, your chance to stand by my side has been lost. You chose not to come to me when I asked and by your silence stood with the Usurpers. I cannot allow you to be placed with those who would heed their lord’s call and publicly come to my aid.” There were several nods but also several looks of astonishment at Finrod’s unusual harshness. His face softened slightly “But the fact that you come here to join this expedition, knowing its probable outcome, has begun to redress your reluctance…" He looked at the group and said, "Excuse us.” He turned and exited the room, going down a large hallway. Gildor hesitated a moment and looked to Edrahil. He slightly bowed his head with regret but gave Gildor a hesitantly hopeful look. Gildor stepped to quickly follow the King. He finally caught up with the King and fell in step, flanking him. Finrod walked in silence, intent on his own thoughts. Gildor’s remorse only grew as they continued deeper into the King’s chambers. Finrod finally stopped at a doorway and turned. Gildor saw him hesitate and look down the way they had come, as if checking for followers. He put his hand on the latch and pushed the door open. Gildor realized they were entering Finrod’s private apartments. The room was subdued with dark paneling. The light from several lamps lit the room. There were a few wall tables of dark wood with sculptures of exquisite quality. Finrod continued deeper into his rooms until he finally halted in a round chamber. Light streamed from overhead to cast a bright circle upon one single object. In the middle of the room was a life-size statue of an elleth. The sight of the statue made Gildor stop and gape in unabashed wonder. It was the most exquisite sculpture of the most beautiful nis he had ever seen. It was so detailed that only the alabaster color revealed it as marble. He could make out each hair in her flowing, waist length tresses. The sculpture is so lifelike, he expected to see the chest rise and fall with a sigh. The expression on the perfect face seemed to waver between forlorn hope and admonition. The grief was etched in the posture and tilt of the head. The right hand was caught in a rising gesture, as if seeking to grasp a lover’s hand. Momentarily forgetting himself Gildor whispered, a little too loudly, “Amarie…” Finrod turned with a start, surprise, almost anger and something else in his eyes. “Forgive me, my lord I did not mean to…” Gildor almost pleaded. “No need to apologize, your guess is correct, but how did you know that was Amarie? Very few here in Nargothrond ever saw her.” “I just assumed, my lord, I have heard of the maiden you left behind. If this is indeed her likeness, she is more beautiful than… than … I can not even think of anything to compare.” Gildor replied in wonder. A look of regret flashed across Finrod’s face. He stared into the distance for just a moment. Gildor began to apologize but a gesture from Finrod halted him. “It is a reminder of my folly and of the time she and I shared in better days.” Finrod gathered himself and returned to the subject at hand. “I do not know why you did not come forward at the Great Hall. Our courage fails us all sometimes, but I am glad to see yours has returned,” Finrod said turning to Gildor. Gildor bowed his head, “I am sorry I did not speak when called, my lord. I… I… have no excuse…” Finrod grasped him by both shoulders, making Gildor look straight into his eyes, “I do have one command for you. I need you to take a message to my sister in Doriath.” The King turned before he could see Gildor’s surprise at the request. Finrod walked into the shadows. Gildor heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed. For the briefest moment fear gripped him, thinking his King would exact some retribution for his cowardice. He heard the King snort in the darkness, “Do you think my mind is completely gone Captain?” Gildor gave a sigh of self disgust,” I continue to embarrass myself.” Finrod spoke from the darkness, “Do not further castigate yourself Gildor. At this dark hour, I am not sure what to believe either.” Gildor looked up to see a shining sword, almost floating in the light pouring from above. Time seemed to stop. The sword reflected the light, almost illuminating the entire room. It seemed as though the air in the room become lighter, letting him breathe easier, giving him courage. Gildor heard Finrod reverently speak. “I wanted to look one last time at my faithful servant,” and, looking up at Gildor, “And confer it to the protection of another. Gildor, Nargothrond will not stand long and my sister will outlive us all. She is wise.” Finrod hesitated, just looking at the sword, slowly turning it in the stream of light. Gildor caught glimpses of his king’s haunted face as the reflection flashed across it. “This was given to me with the Nauglamir… Telchar heard about the Necklace and would not be out done.” Gildor heard a slight smile in the melancholy voice. As if breaking a spell, Finrod blinked and shook his head and sheathed the sword without a second thought. He approached Gildor with a grave look. “Sire, your orders?” “Take this to my sister” and in a quieter forlorn way added, “She will understand why I send it” Gildor brought both hands up to grasp the sheathed weapon of his King. Finrod did not release it and Gildor looked up, wondering at his king’s hesitation. Finrod leaned closer and in a serious, almost secretive voice said, “ You must cleave to her and her husband. She will not sit idly in Doriath forever, she will seek new lands and it is to her you must go. You swore an oath to me and to follow the banner of my house. Artanis will carry that banner alone before this age ends.” The doom in Finrod’s voice silenced all Gildor’s questions. With iron conviction, Gildor answered, “If she will have me sire, she commands my life.” Finrod released the sword. Gildor saw the doom drain from Finrod’s face and a tired but fatherly smile replace it. "Gildor, you must hurry. Pick one you trust and go. It will be a lonely, dangerous road. Your errand must remain secret. There are those who covet this sword along with my crown. Its destiny does not lie within these walls.” Gildor stood and Finrod placed a hand on his shoulder. “There are darker days ahead my Captain. My sister’s wisdom will save those who would listen.” Finrod lowered his gaze and released Gildor’s shoulder. “Hurry on your errand, and tell the others I will be along shortly.” Gildor bowed his head slowly and answered “Yes, my King” and turned away, not wanting to see Finrod’s reaction. As he exited the room, he did turn to look back at his king. It is something he would never forget. He saw the king gingerly clutch the outstretched hand of the statue and heard a whisper, “I will be home, soon.”

Chapter Two

Gildor and Farothir, his friend and second in command, slowly made their way through the Forest of Region. Farothir was once a veteran marchwarden of Doriath but had gone to Nargothrond seeking adventure. He was one of the group Thingol had given leave to join his nephew and help teach the raucous Noldor woodcraft and stealth. He now led his distraught friend to a new home. They had joined a troop of returning wardens and were approaching the entrance to Menegroth when Gildor suddenly pulled his mount to a halt. An overwhelming feeling of fear took him. For a reason he could not guess, he reached for the cloth-swaddled sword he carried across his horse’s withers instead of his own weapon. Grasping the hilt, he felt pain emanating from it. This was replaced with remorse, but there was a slow, burning, righteous anger behind that remorse. And then there was nothing. Gildor gently released the hilt and, to no one in particular said, “Finrod is dead.” Gildor and Farothir waited in the Lady’s private offices. The maidservant had offered them refreshment, but they respectfully declined saying that they would deliver their message first. A few moments later, she ushered Gildor into the main parlor, Farothir choosing to stay in the anteroom. The parlor was a spacious room with comfortable chairs and couches placed throughout. On a couch near a window sat the King’s sister. She did not stir as he entered, but stared out the window. In a forced voice, she said, “You may leave me, Ithilwen, please have some chilled wine and food brought for my guests.” With a look of pity she answered, ”Yes, my Lady,” and turned and closed the door. Gildor shifted in the heavy silence that followed. Without turning from the window she said, “Finrod walks this world no more.” It was a statement. Gildor, bowing his head and with compassion and remorse answered, “ No, Lady Artanis.” Hearing her name she turned to him. He saw her sorrow turn to anguish in her face. “He was the last one to call me that… Here I am Galadriel…” and she turned back to the open window. He saw her collect herself in a way that reminded him of the last time he saw his King. She faced him and stood. “Please forgive me Captain Gildor, I see you have come straight from your travels and have urgent messages. I would not ask you to prolong your errand.” Seeing the strength return to her, Gildor gathered his courage, “ He sent me with this saying that you would understand why he sent it.” He offered her the shrouded sword. As she reached for it, her hands trembled. Gildor placed it in her grasp and knelt before her. Bowing his head, he quietly but, firmly said, “My Lady, I once gave an oath to the House of Finarfin and failed. I would now offer you and yours my life and obedience.” Galadriel placed one hand on his bowed head. “ I accept, my young Captain. And I promise to lead as I would be led and not squander your faithfulness. May your association with this House now prove more fruitful. I know what burdens your heart, but it was not your time. You have a destiny other than the one my brother chose, but your actions will be no less helpful.” Gildor looked up and saw a tear running down her cheek but a wan smile on her face. She placed a hand on his shoulder and had him rise. She saw the pity in his eyes but did not resent it. Gildor made to excuse himself, “Can I do anything for you my lady?”’ “No, Gildor, you have done enough. Have Ithilwen show you to my guest quarters and tend to your needs.” “Yes, my lady” he replied and exited the room, closing the door behind him. He did not see her sink to her knees, clutching the still shrouded sword to her body, and begin to weep.

Chapter Three

They had been preparing for nearly three years here in Rivendell, or Imadris as his elven friends named it. Lord Celeborn, his wife and a small but heavily armed retinue of their folk were the newest arrivals. Elendil’s friend often spoke of the Lady with regard usually reserved for queens. She was apparently a formidable personality for the High King of the Noldor to see her on even terms. And he had been asked to meet with the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien. A king himself, his own nervousness surprised him. These are heady times, he said to himself as he approached their appointed rooms. A tall, silver haired elf, still dressed in traveling gray, was just pulling the door to as Elendil approached. Seeing him, the Elf spoke first,” Ah, Lord Elendil, Mae Govannen. It is good to finally meet you. I am Celeborn of Lothlorien. My wife informed me that you would be joining her shortly and I too have those with whom I must speak.” After a quick bow, Celeborn offered his hand in friendship. Elendil bowed, took the offered hand and said, “My lord, it is a great honor. I hope that my arrival has not hastened your departure.” Celeborn waived off the apology. “Nay, Gil-galad and Elrond wish to hear news from the south and I would renew some old acquaintances.” Celeborn sensed some hesitancy still in Elendil, and said, “Please, enter, my lady is eager to speak with you.” Elendil went into the room. The chamber was spartan but spacious. A single servant quietly put away the Lord and Lady’s things. Elendil turned towards a window and saw her basking in the westering sunlight. Tall, like her husband, but her waist length hair reflected the sun with a shimmer of gold blended with silver. The Lady sensed his entrance and turned towards him. He heard she was fair but the descriptions paled in comparison to the truth. She was a beauty of legend. She gave him a charming smile. Hoping he wasn’t gaping, Elendil regained himself and quickly bowed. “Elendil of Numenor, my lady. I and my house are at your service.” To his surprise, she gave him an ironic look that contained a hint of mirth. “I am Galadriel and I, yours.” The look continued. “Would you like some refreshment?” she asked Elendil replied, “No thank you, my lady. I have just come from a meal.” She motioned to two cushioned chairs by the window, “Would you join me? I have much to discuss with you.” Elendil moved to the chairs and, after she sat, took the offered place across from her. “I have asked you here, my lord Elendil, to renew a debt.” Slightly surprised, Elendil said, “I know of no debt between us, my lady.” “No, I suppose that has been lost through the ages.” After a pause she continued, “Do you know the story of Beren and the Quest for the Silmarils?” “I do remember the legend told to me by my father when I was young.” She gave him another knowing smile and said, “And do you remember the name of the Elf Lord that helped Beren?” After a pause, Elendil replied, “His name was Finrod, was it not? He died saving Beren from Sauron’s werewolf.” He stopped, seeing distress in her eyes. Elendil stiffened and quickly added, “Have I said something to upset you, my lady?” “It is more than merely a legend. It is a story filled with joy and tragedy, and is close to my heart.” She explained. She seemed to shake off the distress and asked, “Do you know of the oath that Finrod spoke to Barahir?” “I have heard of it, my lady,” Elendil replied. He began to wonder at the meaning of this history lesson. She formally said, “Finrod swore an oath to aid Barahir and all his descendents.” Still puzzled, Elendil quietly asked. “And did he not fulfill that oath when he aided Beren?” “Aye, that he did, but the oath was spoken to all Barahir’s offspring. Although Finrod gave his life for Beren, he spoke that oath as the head of the House of Finarfin in Middle-earth, and his household still abides by that oath.” She motioned to her servant. The servant bowed and left the room. He quickly returned with a long object wrapped in white cloth. He reverently bowed and offered her the object. She grasped it with both hands, holding it horizontally and turned to Elendil. Offering it to him, she spoke in a formal tone. “I do not know what weapons you salvaged from Atalante but please receive this as a gift and renewal of the oath between my family and yours.” Confusion flashed across the King’s face. Galadriel gave a wisp of a smile, “Finrod was my brother.” Seeing understanding emerge in Elendil’s eyes she continued, again formally, “…and as the head of the House of Finarfin in Middle-earth, I renew the bond of friendship between my house and the House of Barahir once more.” She unwrapped the hilt of a sword and offered it to him. He slowly reached out to grasp it, his hand slightly trembling in wonder as he gripped the hilt. “You receive it as it was given to me. My brother sent it ere he left on that doomed quest. It was made by the Dwarfsmith Telchar as a counterpoint to the Nauglamir that is lost.” Awe dawned in his eyes. Elendil’s line reached all the way back to Barahir, a vague name of legend to him. Yet the brother of the lady before him knew that legend and was a legend himself. For that matter, she was a legend. He was amazed and humbled by the magnitude of the gift. The antiquity of the sword in his hand and the Lady before him were staggering. As he took possession of the ancient weapon, she released it and the cloth fell away. Elendil held it up and the blade appeared to catch all the light that poured from the window and reflect it. The air in the room suddenly felt fresher and the light brighter to him. All of his doubts about the coming war dissipated as he held the sword up and slowly turned it. He also sensed a purpose flow from the ancient weapon, a need for a vengeance and redemption. “I have often contemplated who should receive Narsil, my lord. My brother sent it to me in the hope that I would bestow it where it was most needed. Now I deem the time ripe. The end of this war will mark the beginning of a new Age. Sauron will rise or fall and peace or desolation will follow. I cannot wield it but in your hands it can fulfill its purpose. This Alliance will be the last great union between Elves and Men. I chose now to further the oath my brother once spoke to your forefather and provide what strength I may by giving you his sword.”

Epilogue

Gil-Galad heard his friend enter and without looking up from his papers, asked, “How fares my aunt, Lord Elendil?” Elendil, still a bit distracted, replied, “She spoke of ancient oaths, Ereinion.” Hearing his friend’s unusual tone, Gil-Galad glanced up with a quizzical expression. He noted a sword now at Elendil’s side. Looking harder, recognition struck him. He had not seen it in three thousand years but he knew it, just from the hilt. Gil-Galad spoke, deep reverence in his voice, “Finrod’s sword… Narsil. I thought it lost in Tol-Gaurhoth” Elendil was pulled from his reverie. He returned the quizzical expression and said, “You speak as though you were there.” He shook his head and waved off the explanation his friend started to give. “The longevity of your race is always a surprise to us. The things we can only read about from a tome of history, you witnessed." Shaking his head, his voice quiet with awe, he said, " I am old by the measure of my kind but your aunt is my senior by an AGE!” Gil-Galad softly chuckled, “She is of me as well, my friend.” Gil-Galad's attention turned to the sword again, his expression solemn. Gesturing to it, he respectfully asked, “May I?” “Of course.” Elendil drew the sword from its scabbard and offered it hilt first to the King. Gil-Galad grasped the hilt and felt the need for vengeance emanate from the weapon. He held it up and as he studied it a long moment. He quietly spoke, “I was there when he threw down his crown and cursed us. My father forbade me to go. And I have lived with the shame since.” He held Narsil up and let it reflect the light flowing in from the window. The sword seemed to exult in the rays of the setting sun and they both felt the anticipation radiate from the ancient weapon. His heart lightened, his breathing deepend as the blade emanated a determined righteous anger, a shared feeling that its hour of destiny had come. Gil-Galad spoke as one who knew and hated his enemy, as one who looked at the instrument of that enemy’s doom. “It wants vengeance. Revenge for taking Felagund, its master. Revenge for taking what was brightest in the world…as do I,” Elendil added with finality, “It wants a reckoning.”