Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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In Armour of the Elder Days

'If I had a host of Elves in armour of the Elder Days, it would avail little save to arouse the wrath of Mordor' (Elrond: Fellowship of the Ring)

Elrond finds out about the armour of the Elder Days, and what it can and cannot avail against. Maedhros loses his temper, and Fëanor's ghost meets a dragon.

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The forces of Valinor are on the West bank of the Sirion, which is too wide to be crossed onto the East bank, occupied by Morgoth's forces, except via the land bridge formed by the Western end of the Andram Wall. The remnant Feanorian force is at Belegost in the Ered Luin. Himring is occupied by the Enemy at this point, and probably so is Mount Rerir. The best military route to Angband is across the Sirion and North between Himring and Mount Rerir (Maglor's Gap.)

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A little over two years later, in the stone-walled chamber with the small window that looked out from the walls of Belegost, over the mountainside, south towards the distant, unseen Sea, Maedhros touched the stones very gently, to send them back to sleep.

He waited for the light in them to die, then picked them up, and handed all three carefully to Elrond, who was the one who used them most, and usually had the task of looking after them now.

Then he drew his sword and smashed it hard into the wooden table, over and over, hacking viciously with the sharp of the blade at the solid oak until it was covered in deep rents. Then he brought his foot down hard on the centre of it, and smashed it right across the middle. Fëanor was fairly sure he must have used a word of command on it, although he had not heard him speak one, the burst of power was clear. And in any case, nobody could break solid oak like that with only their hands and feet.

Elros and Elrond stood frozen, watching, caught into immobility by the sudden, unspeaking violence. Elrond still had the stones cupped in his hands, his grey eyes wide in alarm. Elros’s hand hovered next to the hilt of his dagger, but he did not draw it.

Maglor waited, watching. When Maedhros finally dropped the sword and stood there, breathing heavily among the ruins of the table, head down and face hidden by disordered long red hair, he stepped forward and laid a hand on his brother’s sword arm.

“Are you done?” Maglor asked, very gently, as if there were not sharp splinters of oak spread across half the room. He picked up the sword and handed it quietly to Elros, who looked at it with raised eyebrows, then put it to one side. The edge had been almost flattened.

Maedhros stood silent for a long moment. “Yes. Yes, I am finished.” He shook his head as though trying to clear it. “That was stupid of me.”

Fëanor could not approve of the wreck of a perfectly well-made weapon, not to mention a functional table, but he knew how Maedhros felt. He had once thought that Fingolfin was by far the most annoying of his brothers, but he now realised that that was because he had not appreciated how utterly, infuriatingly wrongheaded his youngest brother Finarfin could be, given a suitably massive opportunity, such as leadership of one half of the Host of Valinor.

Finarfin in Beleriand made Fingolfin — even Fingolfin back in the old days in Tirion, when he had seemed determined to challenge Fëanor on every possible topic — look like a marvel of intelligent reason and active leadership.

“You made an impressive mess of that sword,” Maglor said to his brother, lightly. “The smiths will be scratching their heads over how you managed it.”

Maedhros laughed harshly. “They will, won’t they? What an absurd waste of a good blade.”

“You’ll have another made. They will have several waiting for you to try, anyway. At least you managed admirably to be civil to our uncle Finarfin... to his face, anyway.”

“I just... I can’t believe he’s just sitting there still, looking at the end of the Andram Wall, and refusing to move!” Maedhros said. “We have told him, time and again, how the defenses above the Gates of Sirion are built and where the weaknesses lie. We have shown him how the Andram Wall is structured, and how the defenses look on the far side, we have told him where he can find the river-harbours and build boats. We built the Andram Wall defenses to be held against the North, not the West! Why will he not move? Every day he waits is a day that Morgoth uses to strengthen his new borders. ”

“You know why,” Maglor said, giving him a sideways look.

“Because the information comes from us, and we are the accursed of the Valar and all we do must inevitably go amiss? Yes, he made that very plain. It does not follow that everything we know is useless to them!” Maedhros said. “If every single thing we did was such an immediate disaster, then Beleriand would have fallen long ago!” He made himself pause again, and took a long breath, rubbing at his wrist.

“Well, that, too,” Maglor said calmly. “But we know he also took heavy casualties at the Battle of Tasarinan. It was the first major counter-attack. Up till that point, it must have looked as if this would be easy. I think that now he’s afraid to move in case it happens again.”

He slapped Maedhros affectionately on the shoulder. “I might share your rage, if I had not made exactly the same mistake myself, after you were captured. I, too, sat still and wondered what on earth to do next.” Strange to see Maglor so calmly tackling a problem, and for it to be Maedhros, of all Fëanor’s sons, losing his temper, but that was how it often went, now. Both of them had changed.

Maedhros shook his head. “With the minor difference that you were cautious of trying to storm Angband with only a few thousand. Finarfin’s host is enormous, and has the full support of the Valar behind it! Also, right now he is only trying to cross the Sirion, not break into Angband itself...” He broke off, shaking his head. “Ah, well. If he were not more cautious than we, he would not be where he is.”

Maedhros turned to Elros and Elrond. He was still taller than they were, but he no longer looked down on them from such a height. “I am sorry,” he said, “That was a disgraceful display of temper. I hope none of the splinters hit you.” He gave Maglor a brief, apologetic look.

Maglor shrugged. “It was nothing to that time when Caranthir broke all the windows,” he said “And he didn’t have anything like your excuse.”

“Gil-galad was very impolite,” Elrond said, very serious and just a little deliberately grown-up. “He isn’t like that at all, usually. When I asked if they would be prepared to speak with you directly, to hear the details that I might miss, since I don’t know the land, I didn’t think he would be quite so... so...”

“Pig-headed?” Maglor suggested.

“Insulting,” Elrond said. “But I don’t think he is able to think of, or speak to either of you without thinking of... well. The Havens.”

“And now I am wondering what it is that Gil-galad has just hacked to pieces,” Maedhros said, ruefully. “I hope it was something irreplaceable!”

“I think,” Elros said, diplomatically, “that we could all use a drink. And fortunately, the jug was over here.” He poured out four cups of the light brown ale that the Dwarves brewed. Maedhros drank his thirstily, and poured another.

Elrond had rescued the map from where it had rolled, under Maglor’s chair. Now he piled the table-legs and the larger pieces of the splintered tabletop by the fire, so he could spread the map out on the floor.

“I still think that raising the Sirion would be worth a try,” he said, staring at it.

“I would give it a try, if it were down to me,” Maedhros said. “But we can’t get there. East Beleriand is crawling with orcs. Legions of them, all along the east bank of the Sirion, all playing dice and wondering if Finarfin on the west bank is ever going to attack them, no doubt. Gil-galad and Eönwë will not do anything without Finarfin’s agreement. And when it comes to Finarfin...”

“Shall we leave it that Finarfin is determined that he will eventually cross the land-bridge, and will not consider any other approach?” Maglor said. “And it seems unlikely that he will manage it this year.”

“Or the year after,” Maedhros said, gloomily.

“You know, I thought when we first saw the banners that if the Valar had come to war,then they would come themselves. Manwë leading in person, ” Elros said. “Why didn’t they? Surely the Sirion would be no barrier to them.”

“Ulmo, Lord of the Sea has come.” Maedhros said. “I saw him from the cliff. It may be that if Morgoth himself comes out to fight, that we will see the Valar themselves at war, but I do not think they will come themselves unless all other choices have been exhausted. They are too powerful.”

“Too powerful to fight Morgoth?” Elros looked very dubious.

“Yes. If we can raise a river, or sing a landslide, imagine what Manwë or Tulkas could do. When they went to war in the long past, we’re told, the whole of Arda was torn and rent. If that happened again, it’s hard to see how the rest of us could hope to survive it. I assume that is why they have sent the Noldor and the Vanyar.”

“It’s a pity that the host of the Vanyar are still on the wrong side of the Teiglin,” Elrond said, prodding at the map. “I spoke with Lord Ingwion a couple of times when Gil-galad was in Eglarest with the Vanyar forces, last year. He seemed more willing to listen than Lord Finarfin, just now, I thought.”

“Ingwion is very able, judging by the few times I met him,” Maedhros said. “But where they are camped, the Vanyar have a more formidable enemy to face than orcs, now that Doriath and Brethil have become a breeding-place of dragons. Dragons are bad enough if you are wearing armour designed to counter them, but the Vanyar are mostly spearmen and their armour is made for speed, not to resist flame or poison. Dragons are appallingly resistant to any kind of song-spell or force of will. The Vanyar have good reason not to rush too swiftly into an attack.”

“That is why the forges are working so hard on the new armour!” Elros said. “I see. I suppose it is not so easy for the Vanyar to work on such things in the field and under attack.”

Maglor shook his head and laughed, and Fëanor did too, silently but rather more raucously. “The Vanyar would not know where to start, even if you gave them a fully-equipped workshop and a set of designs,” Maglor explained. “They do not have the skill, or the inclination. They are inspired thinkers and poets, powerful fighters, and they are very brave. But they are not naturally gifted with metal and stone, as the Noldor and the Dwarves are.  And they certainly don’t have the skill of the Broadbeams of Belegost in making armour that can ward off even dragonfire. Most Vanyar homes are shaped through song and word; very beautiful. But their arms and armour are all Noldor-made, you can tell by the styling.”

“Our new patterns are looking very promising,” Maedhros said. “I was looking at them with Audur and Sten, yesterday. They are at the point where they could do with testing in the field. I am thinking that perhaps it is time for us to go back to Lake Helevorn. Our scouts have reported that there is sign of at least one dragon there in the hills, perhaps more than one.”

“If we could clear out Lake Helevorn,” Elrond said, looking at the map, “Could we not then look down from Mount Rerir to the pass behind, and see for sure whether Morgoth is bringing in new forces of Men from the East? I cannot get the stones to look that way.”

“That would depend on whether he has only dragons there, and not other forces reinforcing the pass,” Elros said, and looked at Maedhros. “Wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so. I am not sure if Morgoth keeps the old fortress up there manned or not: we’ll want to find that out. It was our brother Caranthir’s old place. It seems that in general, Morgoth has preferred to ruin our work rather than use it himself.... But we can think about that later. I have agreed to follow Finarfin’s lead and not rush on too fast! We’ll deal with one dragon first, cautiously, and then go on from there.”

“Could we come?” Elros asked. Maedhros and Maglor looked at each other across the room.

“I can’t help feeling you are still too young,” Maglor said, frowning. Elros began to turn away resigned, but Maglor went on; “If you were only of the Eldar, you would be.”

“Both of us can use a sword,” Elrond said, turning away from the map to look at Maglor with calm grey eyes.

“There is no question you are able,” Maedhros said, looking uncomfortably at Maglor too, “I am not so rich in allies that I can turn away help from those who are willing to give it, but...”

“That’s not the point,” Maglor said, interrupting. Maedhros looked just visibly surprised. “We are not sure how long Belegost can remain safe.”

Elros looked startled. “You think that Morgoth will attack the Dwarves?”

“Belegost feels like safety,” Maedhros said, matter-of-fact now. “But so did Himring, and Hithlum, so, I am sure, did Gondolin, and Nargothrond. And Belegost is now the city that is closest to Angband of all Morgoth’s enemies. Morgoth has not forgotten my friend Azaghâl.”

“But,” Elrond said “If Belegost is at risk, will it not be more at risk if it begins to actively attack Angband? Or if... you do so from here?”

“They made that choice years ago,” Maedhros said. “They have been quite clear that they do not want to change it. We have discussed it: I could hardly make such plans without our hosts’ consent. They are making plans for both siege and evacuation. But if it comes to it, and if they can get out, they will go east, having no kin now in Beleriand except in Nogrod, and if Belegost falls, then Nogrod will not be far behind.”

“I am not sure that there is any safety left anywhere in Middle-earth,” Maglor said. He grimaced. “But if you two are going to have to battle dragons when you have not seen nineteen summers, then I’d prefer at least that you do it where we can keep an eye on you.”

Elros raised his eyebrows at Elrond and then looked at Maedhros, questioning.

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “As long as you stay by Maglor and do exactly as you are told.  I believe that I promised you each a sword. I seem to be in need of a new one myself, for that matter.”

“What was that, the ninth?” Maglor asked.

“Tenth,” Maedhros said picking up the battered sword from where Elros had put it out of the way and looking at it ruefully. “I am appallingly careless with weapons. But no, this was the sword I carried to the Havens. I shall not be sorry to replace it.”

“It’s only a tool.”

“So you say, still wearing the sword that Father made for you,” Maedhros said, sceptically.  The sword that Fëanor had made for Maedhros had been lost when he had been captured, of course.

“It has had a few repairs, and Curvo’s special treatment.” Maglor hesitated then half-drew the sword from its scabbard. “It’s yours if you want it, you know that,”

Maedhros made what could have been a brief, cautious glance at his father’s watching spirit, then grimaced and shook his head.  “No.  Too short for me, and anyway, it’s yours.  Angruin will have a few ready for me to choose from.”

“Caranthir’s sword, the one that Telchar of Nogrod made for him, might be of a size to suit Elrond or Elros,” Maglor suggested. “It’s in the armory.  Angruin showed it to me the other day.” Caranthir, too, had been careful of his weapons.  He had carried the sword his father had made for him to Doriath, and it had been buried with him there.

Maedhros looked Elros and Elrond up and down.  “Yes, perhaps,” he said.  “You are both about of a height with Caranthir now...  Let us go and see. Once you have the new armour, you should wear it as much as possible before we leave. Go back to Sten when you have worn it for a day, and get it checked and adjusted — or  ask Angruin, if Sten is busy, but make sure you ask for Sten first.  The dwarves have done most of the work on the armour, I do not wish to offend them. But make sure you do get it checked. This is going to be dangerous. You will not want to have to take it off to make adjustments because you find something is rubbing unbearably when there are orcs on your trail.”

* * * * * *

The small company of Elves that Maedhros had chosen to come with him moved cautiously North through the hills of Thargelion. They were armed and armoured, travelling on foot. Horses of the Elves would endure a good deal for their riders, but Maedhros had decided that the risk that they might panic at the sight and scent of a dragon was too great.

Thargelion seemed almost deserted. They passed what had once been prosperous small towns built strongly of red stone, now nothing but crumbling empty walls, smoke-blackened and sad. Overhead, thick black clouds hid the sky, as they had done for years. Trees here under the Shadow grew thin and straggly, with sad pale leaves reaching to a sky where the sun could rarely be seen at all.

To Fëanor’s sight, the land as well as the sky across Beleriand was clouded, blackened as if with smoke, but this mark was a kind that would not be easily washed away. It was less clear to the others, but they could all feel it, a force that sapped the will and burned the spirit. It was darkest to the North, but all across the long leagues of Beleriand that lay between the mountains and the sea, a dreadful shadow lay.

Paved roads and squares could still be seen, with thin pale grass poking up between the stone blocks, but Maedhros chose routes that avoided them. Roads would be used only by enemies, and the air seemed cleaner when you kept to the foothills of the Ered Luin. But despite the lack of light, there was no lack of life. It was just that the life was all wrong, somehow. Creatures with too many eyes and legs, creatures made more than half of shadows, great flocks of crows that killed for sport as much as for food: all these they saw in numbers, while the trees paled and died in the murk.

One ruined town they passed was haunted by many small, pale-skinned goblins that boiled out like maggots from the ruins as they approached, then fled screaming when they came closer and realised what it was that had disturbed them. A party of armoured Noldor was a fiercer prey than they had hoped to catch.

“Move on,” Maedhros ordered. “If they give the alarm, we’ll be long gone by the the time their friends can get here.”

The gloom wore upon the nerves uncomfortably. Their swords shone blue constantly, and so gave no warning. It was almost a relief, after a day and night of travelling to round a straggling bramble-thicket and find an orc-band heading towards them: perhaps a hundred or more heavily armoured orcs, marching in formation. They were directly ahead, and cries went up as they saw the Noldor. Fëanor had been in the rear, watching the road behind, and so the first he knew of the orcs was when he heard their harsh shouts from the road ahead.

Maedhros had no time for anything but a head-on attack. He gave the command, and the Elves swung shields into place, drew swords, and charged headlong into the orcs before most of their adversaries had had time to prepare for battle.

None of the orcs escaped. They had been marching unwarily, not expecting attack, with helmets in their packs and armour unfastened. Some of those at the back of the troop tried to bolt North, but Fëanor was behind them by that time, an unseen burning horror, driving them forward onto his sons’ swords. Orc bodies were strewn along the road and their dark blood stained the stones. Maedhros looked at them with a frown.

“I think we’ll drag these over behind the thicket before we move on,” he said. “They are too obvious here, anyone that passes could not fail to spot them. It’s worth the risk to give us a little more time unnoticed.”

Elros turned a dead orc over with his foot, with an expression full of distaste, before grabbing it by the scruff to haul away. Then he paused and looked closer.

“You said that the armour of the Vanyar was clearly of Noldorin make, because of the style” he said to Maglor. “Yet this armour seems to me not unlike it. It’s much more like our armour than most Dwarf-armour is.”

“That’s because most orc-armour is also made by Noldor,” Maglor said shortly, hauling an orc behind a bush with a grimace at the smell. “Morgoth has many thralls.”

“Noldor thralls make armour for the Enemy?” Elros said, surprised.

“Oh yes,” said Carnil, with her mouth down-turned as if there was a bad taste in it. She dropped the orc onto the pile and straightened up. “They always try to take us alive, to work in the factories of Angband. Work under the whip, forever chained in darkness, to make the weapons and the armour that will kill our own. It is not always good to be the best at making things... Not that they would do that to you, of course. You’re a lord, and only half-Elven. He’d do to you what they did to our lord Maedhros, and hang you up as an example. ” Carnil’s voice had dropped to a hollow, haunted whisper, and she seemed afraid of her own words.

Elros’s grey eyes were wide and glazed with horror as he stared, the work forgotten. “Carnil!” Maglor said sharply. “Enough!”

Carnil shook her helmeted head and blinked. “I am sorry, my lord!” she said, sounding horrified. “I don’t know what... Elros, I was talking nonsense. There’s lord Maedhros, here with us still. If anyone can bring us back safe to Belegost, he can.”

“Time for a ration of miruvor all around, please,” Maglor said, raising his voice a little so everyone could hear the order. He turned back to Elros and Elrond and said more quietly “One swallow only from your flask. It will help, but you may need it on the road home too, so not too much at once. This is not a thing that comes from inside you, it’s an attack. Remember that, it will help you fight it. Keep your hand on your sword-hilt, if you can. Your swords have protections built into them. As you well know, Carnil.”

Carnil ducked her head, looking embarrassed, and fumbled for her flask.

 

* * * * *

Lake Helevorn glinted darkly under the clouds, a long, broad stretch of water surrounded on three sides by a wood of close-growing pine trees that stretched up into the mountains. A hint of a paler light glowed on the mountain peaks to the east, reflection of a brighter world beyond the mountain-wall, but the land that fell away below the lake towards Beleriand was dark. In the distance across the lake, broken walls that had once been white and fair reflected in the water.

The lake-water smelled bad, as if rotten things were hidden below the surface.

Maedhros led them higher into the hills, to find one of the streams that fed the lake, that might still be clean enough to drink. Their water supplies were running low, but nobody wanted to drink the fouled and stinking water of Lake Helevorn.

“The dragon footprints were down by the lake, at the western end,” Alwion said in a low voice to Maedhros, pointing, as they searched for the path which long ago had led this way. “As if it had come down to the lake to drink, then turned away north again.”

“Let us hope it has not moved too far. We will go north, cross the eastern end of the lake through the hills, and come down on it from the east. Something the size of a dragon should be easy to spot, if it is not asleep... Ah, here is the stream at last! Fill your flasks and drink before we go on. At least this one is still clear of the taint.”

Where he stood, a little ahead of the company on the hillside, Fëanor could see the dragon waiting, far ahead. It was coiled, red as rust, long and lithe around the rocks strewn along the lake-shore, with its rear body and tail leading up into a deep hollow in the cliff behind. Morgoth’s shadow curled around it, coiling, whispering, but the dragon itself had a heart of flame.

It was a young one, he thought, not yet the fully armoured and impregnable beast of poisonous fire it would become, but lethal enough.

He looked back at the small company of Noldor, picking their way warily through the dying trees, over the litter of fallen pine-needles and broken sticks and past the cliffside. Their armour was grey and patterned with fine embossed lines to match the hues and tones of tumbled stone, so they were hard to see until they moved.

Maedhros was looking at him again, grim-faced as he walked. There was no question of it any more: he knew his father was with them. Fëanor found it oddly hard to meet his eyes. He hesitated for a moment, and then pointed on down the valley at the dragon.

He dared not speak more clearly. The darkness that filled the land around them crawled across the the flame of his spirit unpleasantly, looking for a way in. He could not risk opening his mind, and to speak so all could hear might cause panic, since morale was tense enough already.

Maedhros nodded, once, and looked away. Fëanor went on ahead, swiftly on down the mountainside to the lakeside, feeling an uncomfortable sense of failure.

Maedhros had planned his attack with care. They were testing an idea that would be used by the Vanyar, and therefore, they must fight not like Noldor, but like Vanyar, with spears and with agility. All were well used to spear-work — in the forest, it had been easier to keep spears and arrows in repair than swords — but it was not the most accustomed way of going about things, despite the recent weeks of practice.

Maglor with his harp, Elrond and Elros stayed back to form a rear-guard, up on the hillside, partly screened by trees. The rest followed Maedhros, the visors of their helmets now hiding their faces, long spears ready, moving behind him to the lakeside.

The dragon watched Fëanor approach through slitted eyes, unmoving. It could see him, too: Fëanor could see the pupil move, before he hastily looked away. Nobody could look into the eyes of dragons safely.

“Who are you?” it said to him, in a voice like rusty iron falling. “Have you brought a message from Gorthaur?”

Disgust twisted within him. It had mistaken him for one of the Enemy’s dead servants. He lifted his sword - but no. If he killed it here, that would defeat the plan, and if he could not kill it cleanly, then it would be injured, angry and all the more dangerous. Still, if it was inclined to talk, perhaps some useful information could be got from it. At least it could be distracted.

What are you doing here, serpent? Does this land not belong to the Sons of Fëanor?

It hissed, a long bubbling hiss. “Not any more. I have taken it for my own. The previous occupants’ bones are in the lake. Apart from those I use to pick my teeth. I’d take yours too, if you had any left.”

Gorthaur won’t be happy you’ve claimed this land to yourself. Might as well play the part.

“I don’t report to Gorthaur. I’m not some miserable spirit, bodiless... I burn!”

It coughed a long tongue of flame at him, and he leaped aside. The fire was mostly in the physical realm, but not all. He felt the heat of it on his spirit, and reflected from the rock behind him. Good. It must be harder to smell approaching elves with nostrils full of fire and smoke.

“This is my land now. Mine to wither. What does he want, your necromancer master?”

But now Maedhros was close behind it, moving silently, but fast. Some small sound had reached the dragon, and its long head whipped around with terrible speed, eyes narrowed. It struck at Maedhros like a snake, but its teeth were not the rival of Glaurung the Golden yet and the shield held it.

Maedhros leaped sideways across the shingle lakeshore and thrust at the dragon with the long spear-haft in his left hand, but the spearhead glanced from a scale and turned aside. The dragon reared back, and flamed, but Maedhros was still moving, and it only caught his armoured heel.

Two more spearmen came in, thrusting, as the flame died and the dragon swatted at them with a huge claw. One ducked, catching only the fading edge of flame, but the other was hit, and sent flying into the lake. Another followed, thrown violently across the rocky lakeshore by the flailing tail.

Maedhros came at it again as two more of the Noldor drove their spears towards the dragon’s moving legs and missed. This time Maedhros’ spear hit a mark low down on the dragon’s chest, but it was moving past him too fast, and the spear only tore the skin, leaving an oozing black wound. But as the spear dragged through the dragon’s flesh, it pulled Maedhros off-balance, and he fell.

Fëanor cut at the scaled throat, but it was too fast for him to do more than catch it a glancing blow as it rushed flaming at Maedhros as he sprawled against the rocks. The sound of Maglor’s harp rippled out from the trees, fair and desperate, and a wind blew suddenly down from the mountain, carrying sand and gravel and its own flame back into the dragon’s wide golden eyes. That gave Maedhros a moment to get his feet under him and his sword out. He slashed at the dragon across its face as it turned, catching the corner of an eye.

But the dragon was already moving again, the great legs flashing with speed, dashing past the spearmen, its long body bowing into a great spring, towards the sound of Maglor’s harp up among the trees. Another spear caught it in the gap between front leg and body, and it screamed a wild shrill scream, but did not stop, racing with terrible speed up into the trees, which kindled into flame as it passed. Fëanor raced after it, fast as thought, and brought the spirit-sword down towards its neck as Maglor thrust the harp aside and brought his shield and sword up, stepping forward in front of Elros and Elrond to take the blow.

The dragon crashed into Maglor, driving him back onto Elrond, and then it was falling, crashing down into the thick mulch of pine-needles and rotting wood that covered the ground. Elros had stepped forward as Maglor took the impact, and his spear, the butt grounded against a tree trunk, had caught the oncoming dragon in the chest as it ran. Its own speed had driven the spearhead deep into its fiery body. Elros reeled backwards under the impact, coming up short with his back against a tree trunk.

A long hissing noise came from the dragon’s mouth, and the light went out of its eyes.

“Well!” Maglor said to Elros, picking up the harp tenderly from the stump where it had come to rest, and fitting it into its sling. “I was a fool to worry about bringing you. We might as well have just sent you two on your own to do the job... Hey! It’s all right. It’s all over now.” For Elros had pushed up his visor, and his face was white and shocked, his eyes wet.

Maglor put a hand on his shoulder, concerned, but Elros pulled away as Maedhros and the others came running up, exclaiming at the sight of the dragon that lay dark-scaled and cooling among the smouldering trees.

“Come on. If we go down towards the shore a little, we won’t have the smoke in our faces,” Elrond said, practically, shouldering his spear. Elros nodded gratefully and followed.

The dragon had injured several of them — burns, bruises, a broken ankle and a collarbone — but only one had been killed. Alwion, who had been knocked into the lake, had been caught by a claw that had hooked into a weak spot in the armour. The water along the shore was red with his blood. His comrades had pulled him from the shallow, filthy water, but from the size of the wound, he must have died almost instantly.

Maglor did what he could with bandages and words of healing art to help those who had been wounded, while the others kept watch, and while they watched, they sang.

They had long ago found a way of singing the lament for the fallen that barely lifted the voice above a whisper, not to attract undue attention in enemy country. For all the crashing that the dragon had made, and the sound of Maglor’s harp, it was safest not to sing out loud, or to rouse the harp if it was not needed. The soft sound drifted out a little across the dark waters, a strange, unearthly sound that vanished into the white curls of mist that drifted across the cold dark water.

Then they considered what they could do for the dead. “We cannot carry him with us.” Maedhros said, frowning, “and we have no tools to dig a grave. We’ll pull the cliff down a little, here, where it overhangs. He’ll sleep as soundly there as if we had built a cairn, and the orcs will not dishonour his grave.”

There had, of course, been so very many dishonoured bodies left behind already, both dead and living. Here around the lake, Caranthir’s people had lived and here so many of them had died. There was a palpable sense of gratitude, therefore, that this time, there would be a breathing space long enough for a burial.

* * * * * *

“We’ll cross the Ered Luin, then go south to Belegost on the eastern side,” Maedhros decided. “Thargelion is further under the shadow than I realised: best not to return that way, I think, since we have wounded with us. We’ll defer the journey up Mount Rerir to scout the northern pass. Finarfin would be proud of my caution... We can see from here that there is smoke coming from the fort, so probably it is occupied, and there are not enough of us to take it by assault. Eärrindë will need help with that leg on the mountain-paths, but I believe she can get through, with care. We need not hurry.”

Eärrindë nodded seriously, leaning on the rough crutch that someone had made from the trunk of a broken sapling. Carnil was helping her remove her armour and handing it out piece by piece to be carried by the others.

Maglor looked visibly relieved. Maedhros had killed his own people to protect the rest, and keep them from the hands of the orcs before. All of them, apart from Elrond and Elros, had seen it done, and recognised it as a hard necessity.

From another lord, Fëanor thought, even from Fëanor himself, they might not have accepted it. But Maedhros had been Morgoth’s prisoner himself for years. From him, they accepted it.

But to kill their own was something that had not been needed for some time, not since the battle at the Havens. It would have been hard on all of them if it had been forced back on them by an unlucky broken ankle.

Those years since the attack on the Havens had made a change in all of them them: the presence of the children among them, the refuge of Belegost, but above all the arrival of the hosts of Valinor, bringing them back to a hope, however distant, that the Enemy might one day fall.

They had begun to believe again that death or capture might not be the only possible future; had begun to to speak and act as something other than kin-slayers, doomed and without hope. Fëanor felt it in himself, and so did Maglor, so even, he thought, did Maedhros, who had seemed more than once through the years to have fallen into despair.

Now Maedhros looked up at the eastern hills, calm and resolute. “You used to know this land well I think, Telutan? Take the lead. It will do us good to be heading away from Angband.”

Walking towards Angband felt like walking into bitter cold and choking darkness to Fëanor, even through all the devices he could contrive to armour his spirit. But now, it seemed the living felt it too. The malevolence of Morgoth had caught at their breath and slowed every step as they went north.

No army could have passed through the narrow way that Telutan chose for them, but for a handful of Elves on foot, what had once been a winding path that climbed high above the dying forests was enough of a way to slip through into the lands east of the mountains. It threaded through the tall peaks of the Ered Luin, climbing steep slopes that threatened to end in cliffs but never quite did, winding behind boulders but always going on.

Here and there among the struggling grass and heather, white bones lay; silent reminders of those who had tried and failed to flee from darkening Beleriand. They walked on through the night, and heard the sound of wolves howling far away.

At last they crossed the last high saddle of land and came down into Eriador in the first light of morning: a quiet grey line of Elves walking softly down onto the short green grass from the high stone passes, almost unseen and silent.

A wide land stretched pale into the far distance, shaped with the distant outlines of tree, wood and hill, coloured a faint gold by the rising sun glimmering on the morning mist. Far below, the first light of the sun caught on the waters of some distant river, and shone. It felt warmer on this side of the mountains, despite the early hour. The sky was grey above them, a shining grey with faint colours in it like a pearl, though behind them the dark clouds of Angband’s vapours loomed above the mountain peaks.

As they came down towards the white trunks of the birch trees, it began to rain a little, a thin fine rain with the sun behind it turning the droplets shining gold.

Elros licked a raindrop from his lips. “It’s fresh!” he said in surprise. “The rain is clean here.”

Elrond said, looking out towards the sunrise and the faint receding silhouettes of distant hills, “What a beautiful place.”

“Beleriand was like this once, right up to the walls of Thangorodrim,” Maglor told them. “Perhaps it will be again one day.”

Telutan exclaimed, and ran forward a few steps, dropping to one knee beside the first of the birch trees. “Look!” he said. “They are still here!” Small green shoots were showing, among the dewy grass and the old brown leaves. “The Grey-elves called this the Men-i-Luinil, the Bluebell Way across the Blue Mountains. It was planted with flowers that ran all along the way on both sides of the path in the spring-time. It is too early for them to be blooming yet, but here they are, budding. I’m glad they are still here.”

Maedhros smiled, an expression so unexpected on that tired face that Elros, seeing it, looked taken aback. It was entirely possible that Elros had never seen Maedhros smile.