Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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Battles Lost and Won

The fort of Wallsend at the eastern end of the Andram Wall is otherwise undocumented. It is possible that the author of this document had access to other sources not otherwise preserved, but some scholars consider Wallsend to be a complete fabrication.

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The combined attack failed.

The armies of Belegost, supported by a token force from Nogrod, struck as arranged across the River Gelion, an attack timed to meet the raising of the River Sirion. The ford at Sarn Athrad had been swept away by the Balrog, and so crossing was more difficult than it might have been. Then the Dwarves and their Noldorin scouts were met by a great army coming down through Maglor’s Gap out of Angband.

There was a short, savage struggle, during which both the Dwarves and the Noldor did more damage than they took.

In that battle, none could say that Nogrod, late-come to the war, did not play their full part: the Firebeard king, charging furiously into action from his position at the rear, saved the King of Belegost and his housecarls from a force of trolls.  His charge flung the trolls back, and gave the dwarves of Belegost time enough to turn the great wheeled war-bows upon them.  

Maedhros was fearsome in that battle. His face was hard to look upon for its fury, and the orcs fled in terror from his eyes as the horses in full armour came down upon them.

But they did not flee for good: only enough to give the dwarves a breathing space. But soon, everyone could see overwhelming new strength of the Enemy coming down from the North. They had no choice but to retreat across the Gelion.

When the Sirion was called down in spate, the Fens of Sirion were flooded deep and the wild waters spread far onto the East bank of Sirion and up the river Aros. But the foundations of the Andram defences, set in place long ago by Curufin, Amrod and Amras, and strengthened since by many cunning arts of the Enemy, held strong. Finarfin’s army was still unable to pass the Sirion or enter East Beleriand.

The Vanyar, so far as it was possible to be sure from the confused reports afterwards, and the jumbled images that the single remaining seeing stone was able to show, very nearly took the pass of Sirion, the pass where long ago Finrod’s tower had stood, where Finrod had come hastening with his army and found himself beleaguered in the Fens.

There was little opposition as the Vanyar headed towards Tol Sirion, singing as they marched: the strongest army by far of all the forces engaged in the war, led by Ingwion, son of the High King of all Elves, and Eönwë, herald of the Valar, and there were Maiar with them. They had, at last, freed Brethil of the dragons that had beset it. The dragons still infesting Doriath would have to travel far north to come at them across the river Sirion, which even in those more northern lands was still a formidable barrier to creeping beasts of fire.

But then the Enemy, or perhaps some servant of his, for Morgoth himself was nowhere to be seen, moved the mountains.

They did not move far, but the pass of Sirion was a narrow one. The mountains did not need to move far to block it.  The Vanyar, fleet of foot, had fewer losses than Maedhros had feared when first they heard the news of the western host, but their whole host was flung back again into Dimbar.

The dark and bitter waters of the River Sirion, choked at the source, sank down the banks, leaving the River of Beleriand, which had once run silver under starlit skies low, dark and muddy.

To the North, Gil-galad and Círdan’s attempt to enter Dor-lómin and re-take the remains of Hithlum was beaten back, and what was left of Nevrast began to collapse into the sea.

Only the Edain had had much success. They smashed away the Enemy’s makeshift defences around Amon Ereb and marched unopposed out into East Beleriand, heading for the old fort of Wallsend. There they briskly negotiated a peace with the Easterlings who were holding the fort, disarmed them and allowed them to surrender.

Elros held the old fort for two days, until it was clear from the seeing-stones that neither Finarfin’s army out of the west nor the Dwarves would be coming to reinforce his position.  Wallsend was not designed for defence against the rest of the Andram, which was still strongly held by the Enemy.  

So Elrond, Elros and Celebrimbor brought the walls down.

Then, with a minimum of fuss, Elros pulled out of Wallsend and retreated swiftly back to Amon Ereb, before the fort could be turned into a trap.

When they heard that Elros, Elrond and their people had reached Amon Ereb and safety unhurt, Maedhros retreated quietly to his quarters, locked the door, and did not come out for a day. Fëanor hoped that he had managed to weep.

Maglor, on the other hand, got very drunk in the company of a goodly number of Dwarves and most of the Noldor who were not on watch duty, and filled the Hall of Heliodor with music.

Eventually, Maedhros came out and joined them. He even sang a little, and that made Maglor smile in turn.

But in the end they had achieved little, save for a fair number of deaths.

 

* * * * * *

 

Outside on the mountain, snow was falling, hiding the dark ash-stains on the rocky cliffs, but in Belegost, a bright fire was burning under the finely-carved stone mantlepiece in the high-ceilinged main room of the house of Audur. Audur was sitting in her chair by the fireside with a cup of warm spiced ale, and Maedhros was sitting cross-legged on a cushion on the floor, which made them very nearly the same height.

“No,” Audur said, decisively, shaking her white-braided head at Maedhros. “We can’t try it again. The King won’t have it. The council won’t, either.”

“But...”

“We just don’t have the people to risk it, Maedhros! It’s not as if we came to the last battle at full strength. You know how many we lost in Nirnaeth Arnoediad, not to mention retaking Thargelion and Mount Rerir. And not only us. Tumunzahar lost an army at Sarn Athrad, and that loss is still sorely felt. ”

“If the Enemy turns his full attention here, though, all will be lost for Belegost.” Maedhros said.

Audur looked very uncomfortable. “Yes, I know. If the Balrog had come here, we would have lost everything. We do honour our debts, I assure you.”

“That was never in any doubt,” Maedhros said gravely. “The people of Belegost have been generous and kindly hosts to myself and all my people.”

Audur looked more cheerful at that, and chuckled. “All of you indeed. Even the great-grandchildren of Beren the Redhanded. I didn’t mention thatto our King.”

“Ah,” Maedhros said, with unusual awkwardness.

Audur grinned. “He isn’t stupid. I’m sure he knows. But he didn’t have to take official notice of it.”

“They were very young.”

“Yes. I hope we have more sense than to blame children for the quarrels of their ancestors. We are all enemies of the one Enemy, after all.”

“We are. I hope that means you have changed your mind,” Maedhros said. He would not convince her, Fëanor could see that. Probably Maedhros could see it too. Fëanor wondered if he kept trying only out of habit.

“No,” Audur told him, smiling. “We owe you much, but we must have a mind to other obligations. You may be prepared to throw yourself and your people into this war till nobody is left, but my King will not, and nor will Tumunzahar. Not if there is still hope that we can survive with anything left of who we were.”

Maedhros frowned. “I fear I gave up my own hope of that long ago.”

“I know that too,” Audur told him reprovingly. “Another thing I haven’t mentioned to our King. We count such thoughts unlucky; he wouldn’t understand. I do consider you to be a friend... Well, so far as an Elf can be a friend! But that doesn’t mean I can take your part always.”

Maedhros bowed his head. “I am glad to have such a friend,” he said, with an effort at a smile. “I fear I have little choice about being an Elf. I can only try to be as steadfast as the Dwarves.”

“You haven’t done too badly. Not for someone who is far too tall.”

A weak enough joke, but it got a real smile this time. “Some might call you incautious. For one so short.”

Audur snorted indignantly and tugged her beard, now long and white. “Yes, I can imagine where you’ve heard that,” she said. “With one hand they push me towards dealings with the Elves, so they don’t have to learn how to deal with you. Then they whisper behind the other hand of recklessness, and ask why I have no children.”

Maedhros blinked, startled. “I had not heard anything of that kind,” he said. “I was speaking lightly.”

“Oh,” Audur said, and huffed out her breath.

“I did not know our presence here had brought you trouble with your own people,” Maedhros said.

“It hasn’t. Well, not trouble, really, and certainly not since the Balrog. There are always those who think they know better and are prepared to say so loudly. The less they know, the more of a pain in the arse they are!”

“Truth undeniable,” Maedhros said and looked sideways at her. “I don’t understand,” he admitted. “I thought you came to us as the voice of your king.”

“I do. But it’s not usual for Dwarf-women to spend time outside the cities, or act as envoys. Or go to war. Not the proper thing, you see? We’re supposed to stay in the city, away from strangers, and devote ourselves to craft and children. Children, preferably, since we’re at war, and our numbers dwindle with the years.”

“I had heard something of that,” Maedhros admitted. “But I thought you had chosen another path.”

“Yes. Well, you gave me that path to take, you and your brothers, years ago when I was young. I never wanted children, and I’m better with words than I am with tools, though I’ll thank you to keep that very quiet. I might as well hang onto what little reputation I have left!”

“I am less handy myself than once I was,” Maedhros said wryly, and Audur snorted.

“Anyway, the King needed someone to be his voice and speak with Elves. I leapt at the chance and scandalised my cousins and my neighbours... The King is happy enough though, so it should be no business of anyone else’s.” She looked at him consideringly. “I thought you knew all this already.”

“There’s a lot of Belegost that we don’t see, I suspect,” Maedhros said. “We don’t fit. In more than one sense, isn’t that true?”

“This is a city of the Dwarves,” Audur told him, frowning.

“Yes. And the Dwarves talk with us in Sindarin, in the public halls and guest quarters, and mostly speak only of things that are comfortable to talk about. I’m sure there are many subtleties I miss. You’ll have to spell them out to me, if you wish me to understand, I’m afraid. ”

“You are in my house now,” Audur pointed out. “No doubt my neighbours are scandalised all over again.”

“Yet you sound pleased.”

Audur laughed. “I’m far too old to be worrying about the disapproval of cousins. I invite my friends to my house as I wish.” She took a gulp of ale. “In the end, a friendship with the Noldor has surely saved more of our people than doing what they expected of me.”

“You lost your king.”

“And you lost yours. Neither of us happy about that. But Azaghâl would have died if you had not come to his rescue in any case. The Enemy would not have left us in peace, if we had refused your alliance.”

“No. Nor will he now.”

“You don’t give up, do you?” Audur laughed.

Maedhros spread his hand before him for a moment. “I only have the one. If I’m using it to try to push you towards unwelcome choices, I don’t have another to whisper behind.”

Audur chuckled. “Hm! You are handy enough with words. But even so, you’re less devious than my cousins and neighbours think.”

“My brothers Curufin and Caranthir were very clear that Dwarves appreciate honesty more than most. I have shown you every card I hold in this game. The Valar will not aid me,” Maedhros said with an honesty that seemed frankly rash.

“Yes, well, I’m definitely not talking about that to the King,” Audur said uncomfortably. “He hasn’t asked, and I don’t know what the right of it all is. If Mahal thinks I’ve got that wrong, he can always tell me. He hasn’t said a word.”

“I’ve wondered what he would say, if we could speak with him alone,” Maedhros said, voicing a thought that had come to Fëanor’s own thought from time to time. “Mahal is no stranger to the love of the maker for the thing made, and no friend of the Enemy, who steals the work of others and twists it to his will. But you know I must take the Silmarils my father made, or darkness takes us: Maglor and I together. We cannot hold back and wait.”

“I wondered about that,” Audur said. “You waited long enough during the Long Peace, by all accounts. All through my father’s life, and my grandfather’s.”

“Yes,” Maedhros said flatly. “We waited. We had much to lose. Friends, lands, brothers. Much that was dearly beloved and now is sorely missed. Now we are the weaker for it, and our Enemy is stronger for the time we gave him. But still we must go on, for our Enemy still stands, and our Oath holds, and we have nowhere else to go.”

Audur thought about that for some time,  hands wrapped around her cup of warm ale.  Eventually she said, “But they will not march out across the Gelion, Maedhros, not again. Not so soon. The King has made that plain.” She paused for thought. “How if we sent a small force north in secret to Mount Rerir, what’s left of it? The remaining northern spur could be undermined, I think, and we could bring it down right into the pass, on the heads of whoever happens to be underneath. No need for another battle right away.”

“Close his supply route, and the route for his Easterling reinforcements? Now you’re talking!” Maedhros said.

And somehow, mysteriously, Maedhros had turned a ‘no’ into something that was, if not a ‘yes’, then something that was like it. Fëanor could only wonder at it.

* * * * *

That spring, so far as there was any spring under the mirk that rolled endlessly, thick and choking, from the furnaces of Thangorodrim, Maedhros’s small remaining company rode west to the borders of the pitted and scored land where once the River Gelion had run.

There, widely spaced, every one of them carrying a great starred banner that would have done duty for an entire company, they rode out from the cover of the long concealing mountain-root, as Maglor sang of armies.  As he sang, around each rider there sprang up riders armed and armoured, carrying bright banners flying, until a great host rode out, and behind them another, and another.

To any watching eye, they could have been the whole army of the House of Fëanor, as it had been at the height of the years of peace. Maedhros rode at their head, with Fëanor following him like a wary shadow, waiting for attack.

All of them hoping that the bluff would not be called, for although this army could fight, its strength was founded on Maglor’s own, and it could not hope to endure assault for long.

Far to the east, the Enemy’s armies wheeled to face them, but to their relief, did not advance.

While they rode and kept the eyes of Morgoth’s armies fixed on them, a combined force from Nogrod and Belegost struck at what remained of Mount Rerir, and brought great rocks tumbling down onto an army of Easterlings in the pass behind it.

At the same time, Elros and his Edain, with Círdan and Gil-galad and all their remaining strength, landed from Círdan’s ships, struck again out north and west towards the forts of the Andram wall, driving orcs before him. With them there came a great fierce sea-wind out of the West, bright and blustering, that blew the dark vapors of Thangorodrim coiling and tangling back far into the North, until the fierce light of the Sun shone once more upon lands that had been long in darkness.

At the Pass of Anach, Eönwë, Herald of the Valar, fought a mighty battle against a relentless army of foes. Great bolts of lighting rang fiercely upon the barren rocks that had once held the tall pine-forests of Dorthonion, now broken and burned, as Eönwë and his Maiar forced their way grimly up into the highlands where long ago Angrod and Aegnor had fought and died.

Great ropes of ivy, hoary with brown roots and shining with dark leaves spread themselves in a vast mat across the rocks, which shuddered under their feet as the Enemy sought to turn the very rock against this foes, and was held back. The rumbling of the rocks echoed far across Beleriand and were heard even in Thargelion.

Behind them to the south, the lands that had been Dimbar and Doriath and the forests of Brethil lay ruined and shattered. The Rivers of Teiglin and Esgalduin, Mindeb and Aros that had run around and through the woods of Doriath, now flowed into one great basin, torn by songs of power and workings of the Herald of the Valar, his attendants, and the Vanyar of Ingwion into a vast lake.

To the south, the western end of the Andram Wall above the Gates of Sirion, built with all of the art of Curufin and reinforced with the power of Morgoth, shuddered, crumbled, and at last, fell.

And Fëanor’s youngest brother, at the head of all his host with the rising Sun golden before him, marched at last across the passages of Sirion into East Beleriand.

 

* * * * * *

 

There were still years of hard fighting before East Beleriand, Dorthonion and Hithlum could truly be said to have been retaken. There were delays and setbacks in plenty.

The eastern end of the Andram wall had been cut off from Angband, but it was still strongly held, and must be reduced before Finarfin’s army could join with Gil-galad’s and move North.

There were still dragons lairing in the ruins of Gondolin, and Gondolin was harder to assault than Doriath had been. In the end, much of the Encircling Mountains had to be brought down to eliminate them. Nogrod sent a team of mining engineers to assist with the work.

Most of the dragons were slain by rockfall, by the power of the storm called by Eönwë and his people, or by Vanyar armed with spears, but five of them, one of them very large, broke away.

Before they could be stopped they went ravening west and south towards the Falas, which was now largely undefended. The remaining Falathrim, forewarned of their approach by Eagles, took to ships and fled East to the new havens near the Ered Luin, leaving Ossë in his fury to receive the dragons in the Falas. The power of the storm struck against the dragonfire, and by the time the battle was over, there was little left of the Falas, and what was left of the coast was what had once been the northern bank of the River Narog.

But within five years, the combined host of Vanyar and Noldor had cleared the enemies holding the land behind them, and were moving North under skies that were often starry now at night, towards Maglor’s Gap and the plains of Lothlann.

 

* * * * * *

 

“It’s time for us to go,” Maedhros said to Audur, one morning at the lookout point that gave the best view north and west towards danger. “The war is moving north at last. We must go with it.”

“I’m sorry to lose you,” Audur said. “You have been a boon to our defences here. My King will want me to persuade you to stay. But there’s no point my trying, is there?”

Maedhros looked sideways down at her, and shook his head very slightly.

“I thought not. You’re a king yourself. I can hardly offer you rings or land.”

“I am not. The High King of the Noldor in Middle-earth is Gil-galad.”

“Pfft!” Audur said dismissively. “Only shiftless Elves that pass kingship around lightly would think that reasonable. But your people will follow you even out into the Anfauglith, I suppose. It won’t be pleasant for them. Not much of a reward for their loyalty.”

Maedhros gave her a sceptical look that was not at all annoyed. “You cannot annoy me into staying, and nor will guilt serve you. There is only one thing that we need, and it is set in the Enemy’s crown. The Silmarils must take precedence over friendship, I fear.”

“Mmm,” Audur said, and turned away. “All right. I’m not so cunning a negotiator as you. I can tell my king I tried, but we could not reach agreement. A pity.” She turned the cats-eye yellow stone upon her arm to catch the light, without looking at him. “Be careful,” she said. “You said you would remember, when I am gone. You can’t do that if you get yourself killed.”

“So far I have proved to have a great talent for not getting killed,” Maedhros told her. “You be careful, too.”

“Oh well,” Audur said. “As you said, the war is moving North. And I’m not fool enough to go with it.”

 

* * * * * * *

 

They rode out north a few days later, skirting the mountains through the blackened ruins of Thargelion, under skies that were clearer more often now than they had been since the sons of Fëanor had fled these lands in the aftermath of Nirnaeth Arnoediad, over a hundred years ago.

It had been thirty-seven long dark years since the hosts of Valinor had come to Middle-earth. Much of the country to the west of the river Gelion was now more sea than land, and the coming of the Sea brought new winds even into lands that had lain long under the Enemy’s hand.

The mountains near Mount Rerir were largely clear of the Enemy’s creatures now, but they had been shattered, broken and burned and almost unrecognisable. The Bluebell Way across the Ered Luin might, somewhere, still lead across the mountains into the east, but it would be impossible to find the western end of it now, with the land entirely changed.

They turned west, instead, cautiously and quietly, and rode along what had been the March of Maedhros, moving warily through the ruins of lands once well known and well-beloved.

The armies of Valinor, with Gil-galad’s smaller forces as their rearguard, were heading north, but they had not yet passed Maglor’s Gap, and the land lay in an uneasy peace, not held yet by either the forces of the Enemy or the hosts of Valinor, most of whom would be far from being friends.

They passed silently into the hills that ran out west of Mount Rerir unseen, save by the occasional orc, surprised and swiftly slain, and camped warily overnight in the hill-country just to the east of Maglor’s Gap. The next day they passed the Gap and passed in cover of the hills south of Himring, blackened and hideous now, but still showing black and red flags upon the walls.

They came into the rough hill country that bordered the Pass of Aglon as the day was fading into night and long shadows reached eastwards towards them from the mountains of Dorthonion. There they split into two parties and moved off to search, moving like ghosts through the parched and broken hills.

Most of the store-rooms, barns, fortifications and shelters of the March had been burned and looted. A handful were infested with orcs, or had become the lairs of beasts. A couple, near Himring, were occupied by families of Morgoth’s Easterling Men.

But at last in the west, in the rising cliffs near to the pass of Aglon, they found behind a screen of rocks and blackened scrubby bushes, a well-hidden door long sealed. The words that Celegorm had set upon it long ago were still just readable to friendly eyes.

“Better than camping on the open hillside,” Maglor said with a sigh, as they moved the last of the horses inside, into the rough-walled cavernous space behind the doors that had once been a store-cellar for one of Celegorm’s forts along the pass.

“A good deal better than the open hillside,” Maedhros told him. “Celegorm left this place well-stocked. You don’t want to have to eat orc, or the stuff that they are fed on, either. Trust me on this.” Maglor grimaced.

“Most of the jars are still sound, and we have a granary full of oats,” Mastiel reported to Maedhros, once she had checked through the supplies. “Smoked venison, salt pork and a lot of pickled turnips, enough to last at least five years, I’d say.”

“Years of pickled turnips, and one of Celegorm’s cellars to sleep in.” Maglor said, so unenthusiastically that his father could not help but be amused. “Ah well. Still better than eating orc. Not much left living in these hills, and what there is is surely worse than pickled turnip.”

“If we ever see Celegorm again, you’d better thank him for his pickled turnips,” Maedhros said, and almost smiled.

 

* * * * * *

There was nothing that their small force could do against the Enemy’s armies massed before the great fortress-forge of Angband. All they could hope to do was wait in hiding, watch, and be ready when the hosts of Valinor struck, and hope that some fleeting chance might come to come near a Silmaril.

When they had been in the hills near the Pass of Aglon for a time, and it seemed that there would be no immediate threat there, Fëanor left his sons and went a little North, following the mountain-wall of Ladros, to look again upon the Anfauglith, and to watch for his Enemy across the fields of ash.

He passed unseen across the blackened plains where armies and dragons were now encamped, and came to the Hill of the Slain where the dead of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had rotted for over a hundred years. The carrion stench and the birds were gone, but so was the grass that had covered the great mound in the days before Thangorodrim’s reeks had hidden the sun. Bones, swords and armour lay jumbled there in the filth with rotting shreds of leather and boots.

Fëanor looked away from it, discomforted, as the Enemy’s darkness crawled across his armoured spirit, seeking for a way in. An image of Fingon in those last years before the Nirnaeth came back to him. Fingon in shining armour under his blue banner, riding down to Himring to take counsel with Maedhros and his brothers about the great alliance.

Fingon, who had been left behind, had crossed the Ice, who had held the frontier and struck against Morgoth with everything he had to give. Fingon, who had aided the House of Fëanor even to the sacrifice of his life.

Fingon, unbodied, would have fled to the Halls of Mandos. Surely, he would have been swift enough to do that. Surely he would not have been caught as Denethor of the Green-elves had been caught.

Fëanor turned from the peaks of Thangorodrim to the North, and began to search the great heap of bones.

* * * * *

 

He was there for three days, until he was as sure as he could be that neither Fingon’s spirit nor the spirit of any of his knights was trapped there. He had found the shattered remnants of Fingon’s broken bones, detectable as close by blood, his brother’s son, but there was no hint or flicker of the spirit left about them.

Fëanor was no necromancer, but everything he had learned about existence unbodied told him there should be still some link to be found, if Fingon’s spirit lingered still upon the Hither Shore. There was not. There were only bones, empty and without meaning.

Fingon had fled to the Halls of Mandos. Fingon, at least, was safe from the Enemy. Fëanor was surprised at the relief he felt at that.

Something flickered at the corner of his vision, and he looked up to see a figure standing dark and tall upon the hill of bones, a figure familiar, by now, and fearsome. He brought up his spirit-sword.

What do you want? It seemed the creature had not seen him until that moment. It’s dark outline was looking south towards the mountains, warily.

“Oh!” it said, apparently surprised. “There you are at last. About time. You are late.”

I did not come here for you.

It stepped back and considered him. “Ah, how delightful. He took the shining thread of you so neatly, and stitched it into the shape he had designed. He used to do such fine work.”

My path is all my own , Fëanor told it grimly, although he was no longer sure that it was true.

“You still believe that! Sad to think he could never manage such refinement now. Ah, it’s a pity you did not come back to us in Angband. We would have made a fine thing of you. But perhaps it was more elegant, as my lord said, to let you sing your own song to our melody. You, and your seven beautiful sons. A pity he could not weave in the mother too, but then, females are so often disorderly.”

Fëanor struck at it, savage and desperate, and it fell back nimbly.

“Two left now, I think,” it said. “Not much use to us, I fear, not any more, though they may still work a little mischief, here and there, I suppose. You have done your work, you and your proud vengeful sons, and you did it so delightfully bloodily. You barely needed my guidance. Your instinct for ruin runs deep and true.”

I have never served you , Fëanor said. My sons have never served you. Not one of us. If we had not held you for so long, the Host of the Valar never would have come here, or if they did, they would have found nothing but bones.

“We made a pleasing number of bones, you and I.” It turned to the Hill of the Slain, waving a long arm. “I fear my lord’s pretty crows have left little of the flesh, by now. But the bones are a fitting memorial to your fine work.”

He struck at it again, and it tried to catch the sword in its hand as he swung, and almost held it. Warily, Fëanor jumped backwards.

“That will be how you are remembered, my lord Fëanor,” it said, and bowed mockingly. “The king who led his people to the Ice then abandoned them. Red blood flowing beside the Sea and in the Thousand Caves. The ships burning in darkness, flame of treachery. The army that came too late and tore itself so delightfully to pieces. Your memorial will be this hill of bones and the curses that the survivors will heap on your name and your sons, forever.”

It was advancing towards him, dark and terrible.

“My time has come to gather you up, I think,” it said conversationally. “Yes. You will make a fine addition, once you are set in heavier chains, ones that you will find a little harder to ignore. Chains with barbs to remind you what you have become, and gems to remind you what you were...”

Fëanor stepped back warily.

“A just doom and no more than thou deservest.” The voice had changed, becoming persuasive and confidential.  He could see what it was trying to do. Yet he still felt it pull at his thought.  He saw the blood red upon the quays of Sirion, the blood of those who had crossed the Ice to avenge his father, the blood of those who had escaped the hill of bones only to die under the swords of Fëanor’s sons.  

“It would be kinder than what the Valar would give to thee...  Thou must see that thralldom is thine only choice, so why give Námo joy?”  The voice swelled, authoritative, and he found his spirit moving involuntarily to the rhythm in it. “We have a good number of jewel-smiths, since thou hast brought us so many of thy friends, but still, Fëanor the thrall, perhaps I will set thee to making jewels to embellish thine own chains.  That might please my lord well, I think.”

It came inexorably towards him and he forced himself to move back again over the scattered bones.  

“The names they will give thee!” it said, and laughed, a rich golden laugh. “Thee and thy seven sons. Murderers they will say. Child-killers. Child-thieves. Fools, thieves and liars. Each name true and justly earned. And thee they will call worst of fathers, Fëanor of little wisdom, he who traded all his sons for jewels, and failed even at that! It is the truth. Thy punishment has been well-earned; now, submit to it.”

No. Fëanor said, and stopped moving backwards. Two of my sons still live. I have not yet failed. I traded nothing. That is a lie. No matter what is said of me, I love all my sons, and they know it.

It laughed at him, but Fëanor was not deterred. My sons, whom I love, who love me, held this land, he said, and stepped a pace forward with the sword in hand.

They took it from you, and they threw you back beneath the mountain. They stood strong against you through the years. My brother Fingolfin rode out against your lord and gave him seven wounds. Does he limp, even now? I think he does.

“A minor affliction, surely,” it said, and laughed scornfully.

No . Fëanor said and he stepped forward again, burning with an inner flame. My sons held this land against the darkness, my sons and my nephews too.   Power was running through his voice.  My brother, who loves me, struck my enemy and hurt him sorely. Fingon fought against my enemy nobly, even as he died.

“It was a great defeat!” it said and tried to laugh, and yet, the laughter was less full than before “Look upon the hill of the slain!”

Nothing but empty bones. They are not there. You could not hold them. They are gone where you can never touch them. Fëanor said, and certainty was washing through him now, bright as spring water.

Somewhere to the west, not so very far away, he could still feel the springs of Sirion, where he had died, lost under mountains fallen, but still there, bubbling cold and clear far beneath the rock. He stepped forward, and now his Oath was with him, strong as steel and immovable as granite against the thief of Silmarils, as he had always meant it to be.

You cannot hold me, he said. Your master has thrown himself into this land, mile by mile, league by league, to take it from us. We met his will and we fought him, every step, and no matter how we are remembered, that changes nothing. We have not failed.

“You failed!” it said in a voice that was starting to be shrill. “I have slain your kin like sheep. I slew Finrod in dark and despair, in the blackness of his own tower,  I slew him as a wolf, as the darkness grew in Valinor and red blood ran into the Sea...”  

No. I call the Sun and Moon upon you, I call the light of the Evening Star that is my Silmaril.  Finrod is in the West beyond your reach, and my sister Lalwen and all my nephews, and thou shalt not speak their names again, Sauron.  

He remembered Melkor as he had been in Valinor, the humble penitent, and very deliberately, he showed Sauron a picture of that, and then a door closed in his master’s face.

I call thee by thy true name, Abhorred!  Thou art naught but a servant. Slave to a master who is wounded and broken, who has spent so much of himself upon the substance of this land that there can be little of him left.

He stepped forward again, his spirit flaring bright, the sword pointed directly at his enemy, sharp and deadly, bright with the remembered light of Valinor. The Oath beside him struck like a snake, and his enemy swayed back, golden eyes wide in alarm.

I have not failed, and I will not serve thee or thy master, Fëanor said with absolute certainty.

“Oh, very well then!” Sauron said, almost pettishly. “Stay with your sons, if you must! I have enough to do without troubling myself with the last few members of your increasingly ragged house!”

Thou hast work to do indeed, O slave of the jail-crow of Mandos, Fëanor said. The hosts of Valinor are coming, Sauron. They are coming for thee. Art thou afraid? Soon thou wilt have thine own chains to wear.

Sauron looked at him, and for a moment there was a bitter disquiet behind his terrible golden eyes that was strange indeed to see. “Why am I wasting my time here?” he asked himself, and shook his head, a strange boneless movement that encompassed all his body and folded up into the air until he hung there, dark and winged for a brief moment before he took off swiftly across the plain, heading for Thangorodrim.

Fëanor watched him go with a sense of having won a very hard-fought battle. And yet, he had not managed to wound even his enemy’s thrall.  Though he had sent Sauron off with a stinging reproof, he would have been happier if the creature’s words had not touched him.  He should have been stronger against it, and more resolute. 

He looked up unhappily at the hill of bones. He could, perhaps, take Fingon’s remains away to give him burial, but alone he could not hope to move all the great army that lay there. His living sons could not risk coming so far out onto the Anfauglith, which was still strongly held by the Enemy, nor carry so many away safely, even if Fëanor spoke with Maedhros to suggest it. And after all, it was only dust and bone, only a remnant, and a memory.

Fingon’s bones at least were not without honourable company, and though the sky was clouded still with the vapours of Thangorodrim, there was light here, creeping under the ragged southern skirts of Taur-nu-Fuin from Beleriand, no longer under Morgoth’s hand.

Fëanor reached down and ran unseen fingers through the ash and soil, remembering words learned very long ago, when he had been a child in Tirion, playing in his father’s garden.

Words from long before he had made gems or swords, words of art simple enough for elf-children singing joyfully in the distant light of Laurelin the Golden.

He took a clod of burned and broken earth and crumbled it gently into dust, speaking words to it as the dust blew across the bones, the broken helms and notched swords.

And as they had long ago in Finwë’s garden, the seeds that slept still in the filthy ashes awoke, and fed and watered with thought and word, they grew and spread.

Across the bones, swift and sure, the heart-shaped leaves of the bindweed climbed from bone to leather, spreading determined shoots across fallen shields and broken axes. Around the hill sprang up the tall spires and slim green leaves of the willowherb, the fireweed whose seeds float through the air seeking the places where fire has been, that linger longest in the soil, waiting for fire and light to call them back to life.

Before long, they began to bloom: the bindweed first, covering the fallen with flowers bright as the moon, and then the willowherb blushing a brilliant delicate rose against the dark burned soil all around, shining glorious and undefeated against the pale bone and the clear triumphant white of bindweed flowers.

Nobody would see the flowers blooming here. No-one would remember them. Fingon and all his people were gone long ago. And yet, the flowers, though brief, were very beautiful.

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Chapter End Notes

Many thanks to Lyra for assistance with the language of this chapter.