Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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The Defence of Belegost

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Elrond was gone, and Fëanor’s sons went back to their usual round of patrols and raids. Out into the darkened land of Thargelion, across Sarn Athrad, if there was an enemy force in sight that was not too great to tackle, then riding swiftly back before they could call on reinforcements. Again, and again, and again.

Elrond was a loss to their fighting force, but it was more than only that. Elrond had not only hoped that there were better days ahead, he had believed them possible. Without him, that belief was harder to sustain. There was only the need to keep on fighting: day after darkened day, one small grim unimportant battle after another.

A year later, the news came to Belegost that Ulmo had sent another wave. The south of Beleriand had been washed away clear to the foothills of the Andram Wall.

In the wake of the wave had come the Edain, Ulmo’s foot-soldiers, under the command of Elros. Elros had struck at the new south coast of Beleriand, had driven Morgoth’s armies shrieking North, and set up his command at the old fortress of Amon Ereb, now in ruins and on the very edge of the new sea.

Maglor rode out one day without announcing where he was going, without asking Maedhros for permission, dodging across rivers and through armies with a handful of his people across East Beleriand, leaving Maedhros in Belegost.

Fëanor stayed with his eldest son.  He had not known that Maglor had planned to make such a journey, and it crossed his mind to wonder if he would return. But of course he would. It was his duty, and Maglor had never once failed at that. Of the two of them, Maglor was whipcord tough still, but there was a fragility to Maedhros now that wrung his father’s heart, a sense that his fire could fail and his iron will break entirely.

Fëanor did not speak with Maedhros, for Maedhros clearly did not wish it. But he watched as he paced, as he watched and waited, as he rode out through the ruins of Thargelion to chase goblins and shadows back into the north. It was all that he could do.

Maglor returned after a number of days, quiet, tired and miserable, with the news that Elros had become a very able general, and that Celebrimbor and Elrond were with him.

“If they must insist on having the company of the House of Fëanor, they’ll do far better with Celebrimbor than us,” Maedhros told him.

“True,” Maglor said pulling off his riding gloves. He looked across the firelit hall at Maedhros and gave him a twisted smile.  “Elrond gave me a perfectly comfortable place to sleep, on my own in a tent surrounded by fifty-odd Edain.  Every one of them looked as tall and broad as Hador himself...  I felt like a deerhound in a pack of mastiffs.”

“Better a deerhound than a wolf.  You can’t reasonably complain that he is cautious.”

“No.  No, you’re right.” Maglor sighed. “Celebrimbor will do just as good a job as I could of ensuring Elros does not take on more than any three people could reasonably manage, and that Elrond does not break his neck taking some needless risk.”

“Good that Celebrimbor has a commander who trusts and values him, too,” Maedhros said. “His position on Balar cannot have been easy.”

“He wasn’t much impressed with me,” Maglor said. “But that’s only to be expected, I suppose, after the Havens. He was civil enough at least, since Elros asked him to be... I still miss them.”

“So do I,” Maedhros told him. “And so many others. But.”

Maglor sighed. “Yes. But. The Enemy.”

“And the Silmarils.”

Maglor grimaced, but then he nodded. “You were right. They are better off without us. I’m sorry. I won’t go again.”

“There’s no way out,” Maedhros said, almost apologetically, as if this were something Maglor might not have noticed.

Maglor shrugged.  “Probably not,” he said. “But you never know.  We thought Valinor had given up on us, and Finarfin had gone home to live in peace forever, and then suddenly there were Eönwë‘s trumpets sounding. Let’s have a drink.  Something may turn up.”

* * * * *

The Enemy had made several attempts to retake Thargelion, but until now, none of them had been very serious. Most of the action of the war was taking place in the West. Maedhros, sometimes in the company of the dwarf-commander Audur, watched what the last seeing stone would consent to show, and Fëanor watched too, frustrated yet still touched by hope.

The Vanyar, with the aid of Círdan’s Falathrim, made many small light boats and raided across the Northern Sirion into the land that had been Doriath. Now it was a breeding-place of Morgoth’s dragons, a place where the remaining trees were twisted and dark, and there were great bowls and hollows in the earth where the dragons had made great nests.

The Vanyar were beaten back, despite their Dwarf-armour, in flame and smoke, and soon were struggling to hold Dimbar.

Then yet more dragons came lumbering out of what had been Gondolin, and launched flaming into fierce attack against the Vanyar. They were forced back across the line of Sirion — though the Sirion, from the small visions shown by the seeing-stone, was almost unrecognisable now as the silver river that had flowed through the heart of Beleriand. Its waters now wandered melancholy through a land of torn mud, smoking pits and stinking fens in which the songs of the Vanyar and the Maiar had contested with the beasts of Morgoth for far too long.

And now, the Enemy’s effort in East Beleriand was redoubled. New armies, mailed and armoured, carrying sable banners, poured south out of Angband to fortify Estolad, and to reinforce the Andram wall and the passages of Sirion.

It was clear that the small remaining Noldor force could not continue to hold the road to Sarn Athrad unsupported, and the sons of Fëanor and their people were reassigned to lookout duty, when there was no other task that required their talents.

Maedhros looked out from the most westerly outpost of Belegost, a room with a tall window looking out from an outthrust spur of Mount Dolmed, that stood like a tower looking down West towards Sarn Athrad and the river Gelion. From here, in the dim light of day shadowed by the smokes of Thangorodrim, elven sight could just see the ford, though it was too far for dwarves to see. The original low-ceilinged rocky corridor to the lookout point had been hastily extended upwards so that Elves as well as dwarves could walk here in reasonable comfort.

“They’re crossing the river,” he told Audur, who was sitting at a low table that was mostly covered in a large, much-annotated map.

“Good,” Audur said with confidence. “We’ll see how far they get.”

The Enemy’s army crawled from the river like a vast black-scaled serpent, heading swiftly up the old dwarf-road. Most of them were across the river now, and the vanguard was moving up towards the wooded foothills.

And then, abruptly, the smooth menacing motion of the armoured orcs was broken. The serpent fell into flailing segments as the road beneath their feet heaved and fell away.

“They have fallen into the pit,” Maedhros said, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Most of them are well caught up in it. Their rearguard still stands, I think, there are trees in the way... Ah, and now Ivaldi has sprung his trap, and the dwarves are coming down from the hill to drive those that escaped into it.”

“So far, so good,” Audur said cheerfully.

“Those orcs that can get out are fleeing back to the river. Where are you, Maglor? Late, as usual... Ah, here he is at last. The river is rising...” He stopped speaking, and made a sudden intake of breath.

“What?” Audur demanded.

“There is something else with that army, among the rearguard. Something very strong. A necromancer, or a Balrog, perhaps.”

“Well, which? ”

“I don’t know... A Balrog, probably. It is calling on its master to raise the land against Maglor and the river. Rock is running red.... There is too much steam. I cannot see any more.”

He turned from the window. “The whole valley is full of smokes and steams,” he told her wearily. “It’s coming this way.”

Audur leaped to her feet. “I must send to the king and get our people moving out of the city, east to safety,” she said. She paused for a moment. “Are you not going to get into armour?”

Maedhros let out a breath, and straightened. “Yes, “ he said. “I’ll get my people together and go to the gate. Maglor is still alive down there somewhere. I can feel him. With luck, so are Ivaldi and his people.”

“We can only hope,” Audur said, and she hurried away.

Maedhros did not move. Fëanor hesitated, waiting, but still Maedhros stood unspeaking, staring blankly down at the map that Audur had abandoned on the table.

You should go , he said at last to his son, when Maedhros still did not move. Your brother will need your aid.

“All my brothers needed my aid,” Maedhros said without looking at him. “I am coming to the conclusion that there is no aid that can be given by the House of Fëanor that does not end in greater darkness.”

If we have no choice but darkness, then we might as well blaze bright before we burn out.

“I wonder if that is what the Balrog thinks,” Maedhros said quietly.

Does it matter? There is still a task to be done, and the Balrog stands in the way.

Their Oath pulled at Maedhros so that his head came up and his breath came faster, but he did not move. He gave his father a look that still had more than Fëanor had expected of the old fire in it.

“True,” he said. “There is still an Enemy. No star left to follow, only darkness everlasting. I suppose it’s better than nothing at all.”

There is still light, Fëanor told him. There is, even if you cannot see it.

“So my father’s dark ghost tells me,” Maedhros said and laughed, almost without humour but it was a laugh. “Very well.  Last time I trusted you, things did not go smoothly, but they could have gone much worse. There is light somewhere, probably, and my last little brother needs my help. I shall go on trying. I am left with little choice.”

In the Hall of Heliodor, the Noldor who had not gone with Maglor were waiting to be called on. Maedhros strode through calling the command to arm, and by the time Ecetion had helped him on with his own armour, they were all ready: less than a hundred, all told, for Maglor had taken a patrol with him.

The sound of running feet echoed through the mountain-city as they marched down to the main gate. The long-laid plans to escape the city were being followed, and dwarves must now be pouring out of the eastern gates and away into the pass.

But in the great halls behind the Westgate, armoured dwarves were rallying. Maedhros found their commander.

“I’m not opening the gates now,” Hepti snarled at him. “It’s coming. We don’t know how far away it is!”

“Yes, I know,” Maedhros said. “It was I who saw it. I doubt it will be here yet: they move swiftly, but not that swiftly. But we are not in such numbers that we need the main gates. Let us use the western sally port. You can block the corridor behind that once we are gone.”

“All right,” Hepti said, without pausing to think about it. “Get going!”

A company of dwarves nearby turned to follow Maedhros as they ran for the sally port. They were led by a cousin of Ivaldi, the commander of the Dwarven troops that had been with Maglor down by the riverside. Behind them as they ran, ducking a little to avoid the low roof, they could hear the sounds of Dwarves pulling across the heavy blocks that would prevent attackers coming up from the river through the corridor, but would also cut off any retreat this way.

From the sally port, you could not see down into Thargelion, and certainly not as far as the river: the mountains cut off the view. The air smelled of ash and smoke. The sally port was too narrow for horses, so they were afoot.

“It will take them time to get past Ivaldi,” Maedhros said, lifting his voice so that the dwarves who had followed could hear him too. “Still, we must hurry. We are needed.” They ran down the long valley that sloped towards the lowlands of Thargelion, the tall Elves soon outdistancing the Dwarves.

The Balrog had set flame in the woods that still clung to the hills along the old dwarf-road and as they turned the corner of the mountain-shoulder and came down the hill, the whole land ahead was hidden in a thick grey mix of smoke and steam. Cries and the sounds of battle were coming out of it, but it was impossible to see what they were facing.

Maedhros glanced across at his father. Before he had to speak, Fëanor threw himself upon the air, speaking words of power. The air was reluctant to hear him. It hung, smoky, heavy, infused with the essence of the Enemy, coiling darkly.

Fëanor gathered his spirit, and tried again, speaking to it fierce words of wild winds upon the mountain, calling to it gently of bright breezes that had run across the grasses of Beleriand before ever the Enemy had come there to befoul it. Gradually, reluctantly, the air yielded to his persuasion and began to move, carrying the mists and smokes away into the west.

“Telutan, take the right flank. Saeldir, the left,” Maedhros said calmly. The dwarves were coming up behind them, but they did not move so swiftly, and had taken longer to pass the mountain-shoulder.

As the pale mist began to clear, curling away in thin streams and tendrils, the small force coming down from Belegost could see bodies strewn along the road — dwarves and orcs and men — and a force of black-armoured orcs still holding together, pressing on.  What was left of Ivaldi’s people were being driven back up the hill beyond: Ivaldi himself, a great broad-shouldered Dwarf, wearing golden armour and the flame-coloured livery of the House of Azaghâl, was among them.

At the head of the enemy, emerging from the clearing mist, was a great dark figure filled with flame and terror, carrying a red sword and a fiery whip.

Its eyes went up to Fëanor, poised upon the air, but Maedhros stepped forward. “Turn back!” he shouted. “Turn back! Thargelion is under the protection of the Sons of Fëanor. There is no place here for the servants of the Enemy.”

The Balrog turned to him and laughed like roaring flame. “I see an escaped thrall,” it said. “Have we still not punished thee enough, slave? Thou cravest yet another whipping?”

“There is no place here for you, Naegramog!” Maedhros said. “Turn back, or I will bring you as near death as you can know.”

“Nay!” the Balrog said in a great rolling voice that beat with power. “Kneel! Kneel to me thrall, and I may yet show mercy and slay thee. Or do not and I will take thee back to thy true master. He will delight in choosing thy punishment.”

The power of its voice bit into Maedhros, and you could see him shudder under it as if at a blow.

But the Balrog was not on its own ground, and it had already spent much of its power. Maedhros was fresh to the fight. He shook the words away contemptuously and stepped forward, sword in hand.

The red whip cracked down, but Maedhros was not there. He had leapt aside. “You are bound to your flesh now, just as I am, Naegramog,” Maedhros told it, taunting. “Does it feel strange to you, to be trapped in a single form? Unchanging and vulnerable?”

The Balrog brought the whip down again and missed, barely. “I will strip the flesh from thee entirely,” it hissed. “I will leave thee alone forever in everlasting darkness, like all thy brothers.”

Fëanor was still holding the mists and smokes back, but he almost lost them at that.

Maedhros did not seem discomposed. “I will break your flesh,” he told it, and ducked under a vast blow to hack at it from behind as he passed. “I will take away the only form,” and he struck again swift as thought, “the only form you have, Naegramog, hideous as it is, painful,” and again he caught its side and danced swiftly back as it roared “...painful as it is.”

“Do you remember what he offered you, Naegramog?” Maedhros called as he ran past it. “Do they seem worth it, still, your master’s lies?”

The other Noldor were cutting at the orcs, who had come flooding past the Balrog, beating the Elves back so that Maedhros and his adversary now were a little apart from the crowd, in a space south of the road.

The whip flicked out, but it only caught his armoured right arm a glancing blow. Maedhros laughed harshly and slid sideways.

“Now you are trapped in this form, wed to Arda,” Maedhros told it. “Arda that is bitter now...” and he struck at its massive arm and it recoiled. “That cuts at you now, Naegramog, inescapable...” and he cut at its foot.

“I’ll chain thee in the pit, in agony for a thousand years,” the Balrog hissed, striking out with the whip. Maedhros ducked under it. “And that will be only the beginning.”

The new force of Dwarves from Belegost had come up. “Baruk Khazâd! Baruk Khazâd!” Their fierce warcries rang out across the hills and into the burning woods as they charged into the fight beside the faltering Elves, and in answer Ivaldi rallied his remaining people, and began to push back down the hill.

The orcs were falling back a little, but both sides left the Balrog and Maedhros to their dance. Fëanor moved to support his son, but Maedhros seemed not to need him.

“I am a child of Arda,” Maedhros said, almost conversationally, as he spun past the Balrog. “I was born to this flesh.” A swift skilled blow to the flank, and he darted back. “I was. Born to be bound to this painful, dark and terrifying world.”

The Balrog roared wordlessly and hit at him with its blazing sword.

Maedhros dodged, and went on; “This is my nature. Nothing you can do....” and he hit the other side hard, so it lurched. “Nothing you can do to me, Naegramog, is as terrible as what you have done,” another blow, “what you have done to yourself...” and the Balrog was falling forward. “... caging yourself against your nature,” Maedhros said, and his sword hit it, very finally, at the back of its massive head. “In flesh that can be killed .” and he drove the sword deep then wrenched it out and stepped back.

The Balrog was lying very still, and the flame in it guttered out as the Noldor won through the last of the orcs and came up to join him. Maedhros gave it a bitter look. “Cut its head, arms and legs off,” he ordered. “It must not creep back into that body and make use of it again.”

Umbathiel gave him a worried look. “Should we not first seek for your brother, my lord?”

Maedhros looked at her silently with eyes that blazed, and Umbathiel took half a step back, recoiling as if from a blow. Fëanor thought of speaking, but if he did that here, he might be heard by all nearby, and there was danger enough to that even when there was not a Balrog-spirit homeless and somewhere close.

“It will be done,” Saeldir said, gently and with caution. “But it might be quicker to do that task with axes than with swords and spears, Maedhros.” Brave of him, that, for all that he was some kind of very-distant cousin, and for all that Maedhros was his lord, and had saved his life half a dozen times.

Maedhros blinked once and shook his head. “A good point.” He took a deep, slow breath, and the cautious elves around him relaxed. “It was lying. They do that. Maglor is alive, Umbathiel, and I think not too badly hurt. He’ll not want us to come for him without making sure that thing is not on our trail.”

“I’ll speak with the dwarves and ask their help,” Saeldir said. “Perhaps take miruvor and rest a little? That was a deed of great valour. Maglor will want to make a song of it.”

“I don’t need songs about my deeds.” Maedhros rubbed a gloved hand across his face. “But very well, Saeldir. I will take miruvor and I will also try harder not to glare. Thank you. But I had better speak with Ivaldi myself. I daren’t risk the Dwarves taking offence: we have few enough friends left already.”

Saeldir smiled. “You have just slain a Balrog that was about to bring ruin to their city,” he pointed out. “I think they might forgive you if you take a few moments to rest.”

“Perhaps,” Maedhros said. “But believe me, Saeldir, when I say that I will be much happier if I have explained to the Dwarves myself the urgency that... that beast... should be chopped into very small pieces.” He managed, to Fëanor’s surprise, to summon up a smile of sorts. “I may want to jump up and down on them afterwards.”

Saeldir gave a wry smile in return. “Of course,” he said, and by the time Maedhros had spoken with the Dwarves and returned with a company armed with axes, the Noldor had already contrived to remove the Balrog’s head.

 

* * * * *

The Gelion, when they came near enough to see it properly, did not look much like a river, any more. The land had been torn and ripped apart as if by great claws: the place where the road had run down to the ford of Sarn Athrad was a great wide rent in the earth, where surging water ran away, roaring down into darkness. The riverbed steamed and hissed, water was spreading out into a swamp, and the ground across the river was reared up into black heaps of tumbled stinking stone that stretched away into the gloom.

They found Maglor some time later, not far from the old river-course, with Carnil and Nahtanion and most of the rest of his patrol, riding slowly back towards Belegost. They were all black with soot, and several were burned, though the horses were uninjured: they must have dismounted before the fight. Maglor’s burns were the worst: the fiery whip had caught his face and torn the gauntlet from one hand, and his blistered left arm hung at an unlikely angle. Behind the angry red of the burn, his face was very pale.

Nahtanion hurried forward in relief as soon as he saw them. “He won’t let me touch it,” he told Maedhros plaintively.

“Oh hush, Nahtanion,” Maglor said in a voice that was a harsh whisper. “It is only burned. I can ride. It will get better soon enough.”

“But in the meanwhile, you can’t fight or play the harp like that,” Maedhros said looking him up and down and frowning. “Or sing, from the sound of it. Come on. Off the horse, Maglor.”

Maglor gave him a look that would certainly have daunted most of his other brothers, and dismounted awkwardly. He hit the ground heavily and winced, biting at his lip.

“Stand still and let Varyar put it in a sling. I’ll sing it back together once we’re clear of the enemy.” Maedhros ordered.

“You?” Maglor said, incredulously and unfairly. Maedhros was entirely capable of mending a broken arm. Maglor was in considerable pain, or he would not have said it.

“Yes. Me. I’d do it here, but there are probably still orcs about. You’ll have to put up with it until we get back to Belegost. But we’ll strap it up. There’s no point you trying to ignore it.”

“There’s still the Balrog,” Maglor said, hoarse and miserable. “It got past me.”

“But not past me. It’s dead. Ivaldi and his people are mopping up the last of the orcs now. We live to fight another day.”

Maglor sagged with obvious relief. “Must we?”

“Yes, we must,” Maedhros said. He looked at his brother thoughtfully, and shook his head. Fëanor could see why. Maglor seemed barely able to stand, and and given that this was Maglor, that was rare indeed. “Look, sit down for a moment, while I look at this arm and set some words on it to take the worst of the pain away. Then you only have to make it back to Belegost to rest. You can do that. Just a little further.”

He sounded as he might have done years ago, before the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Perhaps, almost as he might have spoken when Maglor had been very young.

“Oh,” Maglor said, looking as if a great weight had lifted from him. He sat down on a stump of shattered stone which had a pattern of lilies carved on one side. “I feel very small, complaining of a broken arm and blisters, to you,” he said.

“It’s not a competition. And that is a very nasty burn. Stay still,” Maedhros told him, and he set words of healing on the burns, enough at least that Varyar could touch Maglor’s hand to pull the arm into place and secure it in a sling.

* * * * * *

 

The eastern front was quiet for a good while, after the fall of the Balrog. Presumably either Morgoth or his chief lieutenant had decided that Belegost was too tough to tackle without preparation.

But there was one consequence of the Balrog’s fall.

Nogrod, by far the weaker of the two Dwarf cities of the Ered Luin after Beren’s victory against their army at Sarn Athrad, had so far stayed out of the war. They had sent messages and occasional supplies to their cousins in Belegost, and they had received messages politely enough from Maedhros, but had made it clear that they would do no more.

Perhaps they had become aware that Beren’s heirs had taken refuge in Belegost, though they did not say so, at least not where Fëanor and his sons could hear. What the King of the Firebeards of Nogrod was prepared to say in public was that a war between Elves and their enemies was no concern of his.

The Balrog had changed that. The Firebeard king now sent urgently to Belegost with promises of support, and to Maedhros himself, asking if the Noldor allies of their cousins would join in an alliance, and help them make an agreement with the forces of the West.

“Well!” Maedhros said to Maglor, once the messenger had left. “I’m flattered, but I fear they greatly over-rate our influence. Still, I suppose there are two people left that we can speak to about this.”

 

* * * * *

 

“And how do you suggest I explain this alliance with Nogrod to the Doriathrim, and to Gil-galad?” Elros enquired, through the seeing-stone, some time later, when Maedhros had finally managed to catch him using his stone and with time to speak in private.

“It might be better to simply not mention it to the Doriathrim, if that is feasible,” Maedhros suggested “Speak only of the Dwarves, and let them think you mean Belegost. You could tell Gil-galad that they sent their messenger directly to you, I suppose, without there being any real untruth to it, if you think that is a problem. I am only handing the message on to you. ”

“Of course you are,” Elros said, and gave him a knowing grin. “It would be most unlike you to be brokering alliances, after all. I am not too concerned. Gil-galad will listen to my advice, at least, and Belegost has been a very useful ally.” He looked over at Maglor, sitting near his brother with a cup of wine in his unbandaged hand. “What happened to you? You look a mess.”

“Thank you, Elros,” Maglor said, in a voice that was only a little huskier than usual. “That makes me feel so much better. I recommend only fighting a Balrog if you have a brother to hand who can come and rescue you if you make a botch of it.”

“You fought a Balrog?” Elros’s eyebrows went up, impressed.

“I fought it with very little success — except that it didn’t kill me — and it walked right over me. Maedhros killed it,” Maglor said. “Nogrod was clearly stirred by his success. That’s why they have suddenly become so friendly.”

“I’ll have to tell Círdan,” Elros said with a grin. “He’s very proud of his fight with a Balrog — but he didn’t finish his, it got away!”

“It might be better not to mention it,” Maedhros said. “I fear the days when I could compare deeds with Círdan are past. Count it as amends, if you like.”

“You’re doing well on amends... You weren’t badly hurt, Maglor? Elrond will want to know.”

“Only a broken arm. Oh and some blisters.  You know how I hate blisters... Maedhros sang the arm back together, which was much worse than breaking it. I screamed very loudly, and he ignored me.”

“He is only a little scorched.” Maedhros gave his brother a sideways look with some amusement to it. “He squeaked somewhat when the bones came back together, but he has been complaining loudly, which is usually a good sign. He can still play the harp.”

“But alas, I am forbidden from making a song of it,” Maglor said. “Not that I particularly want to make a song about being embarrassingly trampled, but Maedhros’s part...”

“Enough of songs,” Maedhros said quietly.

“Oh very well then. I won’t mention it,” Elros said, making a face. “Though, you know, things are very dull down here at our end of Beleriand. We only see orcs and the occasional army of Men from time to time, at Amon Ereb. And a troll, the other day, but sadly he was going west and didn’t stop to visit us. I was looking forward to having something to boast about to Círdan next time he comes by with supplies.”

“Dear me,” Maedhros said and there was the faintest hint of a gleam in his eye. “We can’t have you getting bored. I did have one other thought that I had a mind to mention, since we needed to speak with you of Nogrod anyway.”

Elros leant forward, his grey eyes shining. “Now, might this be a thought about an attack from Belegost across the Gelion, coordinated with a new offensive against the passages of Sirion?” he asked. “Because, as it happens, Elrond and I were discussing with the lord Ingwion only the other day, that old idea of Elrond’s, about raising the River.”