Of Finrod and Bëor by losselen

Coda VI: Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor

VI.

Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor

The deeds of mighty Bëor’s clan
that bards still sing in Elven-song
in ages long ago began
on the sloping hills of Dorthonion.

For many years would Bëor’s folk
walk upon the stony land
and labor neath the beech and oak
of Ladros, and in Beleriand
went Baran mighty, Bregolas,    
and Morwen Eledhwen, stern and fair.
For many seasons the leaf and grass,
grew and fell in northern air
beneath the stars, and grew again.
But long ago was loud the cry    
of Barahir on flaming plain,
that rang beneath the smoking sky
when Ard-galen in embers laved,
and Finrod thus with mighty spear
in dire hour from death was saved.
His ring he gave to Barahir
borne out of the Undying West
a token of abiding bond,
and later, as unlooked for guest
did Beren come to Nargothrond
to call on everlasting ties
the oath of friendship unforsaken
and answered him did Finrod wise.
By roadways that were seldom taken
they went forth. Of pain and death
unheeding rode they, Beren bold
and Finrod fair. The bitter breath
of morgul-towers and sorcelled cold
would fare for the hand of Lúthien.
Yet there would perish Finrod king
in dungeon deep and pit within
when round him wound a creeping ring
of beastly wolves, whose iron teeth
tore into Finrod’s body bare,
who fell in darkness far beneath
the Sirion’s water that once ran clear.
And flew he then on dying wing,
from yawning gate and darkling walls
and Hither-lands passed Finrod king,
returning to the timeless Halls
where Mandos sits and looks afar,
and walks he now on Shinning Shore,
but under Moon or under star to hither comes he never more.

But Beren was, beyond all hope
saved from death by Tinúviel.
They buried Finrod on the slope
of island green, as morgul-spell
she broke and cleaned. They went alone
through woods of nightshade flying sped,
to stand uncloaked before the Throne
and dauntless meet the King of Dread.
So singing Lúthien cast him down,
and Beren cut from forgéd weld
Fëanor’s Jewel from Iron Crown.
With hands enjoined they both beheld
the Jewel of light. Though both defied
they Foe and Oath of Silmaril,
yet in the end she also died,
beside Beren dead, Tinúviel,
who danced in starlit hemlock-paths
where once the Elven-river ran
in green, inviolate Doriath,
before the mortal Sun began.

And dark the Norland waters turned
in rivers rushing down to shore,
and into ruin. Kingdoms burned
by flames of treachery and war.
Fell Gondolin and Nargothrond
and Doriath hidden, green and fair,
where nightingales in Region
once sang and thrilled the forest air.
For under waves of ocean rolling
are mountain, vale, and cave alike,
the silver harps, the clock-bells tolling,
the jeweléd pillars, sword and pike.
And foundered now is Elvenesse,
the golden halls, the carven ways,
and all the things of loveliness
that once there were in Elder Days.