Quenta Narquelion by bunn

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The Flames of War

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It was partly Fingolfin’s fault, Fëanor thought. Fingolfin had never been a particularly persuasive leader. Fingolfin could not win over his people to follow him into an attack by the power of his own passion, in the way that Fëanor had done. But he had to admit that at least Fingolfin was trying to encourage his reluctant people to take the fight to the Enemy.

It was Fingolfin who sent messages urging Fëanor’s sons to explore the eastern end of the Ered Engrin, the Iron Mountains that stood tall and dark around the border of Angband.

And it was Fingolfin who came in person to visit the defenses, talking of assaulting the Iron Gates. He was only reluctantly dissuaded by Maedhros that there was no route that an army could take into Angband from the East.

It was Fingolfin too, who insisted on setting up camps on the plains before the gates, lest some small movement by the Enemy should otherwise be missed.

Fëanor began to wonder if he should break his resolution and speak directly to his half-brother. Perhaps together they could find some strategy that would bring together all the foes of the Black Enemy of All the World, to break Morgoth’s power before he had a chance to strike.

So it was that when at last Morgoth broke the Siege of Angband, Fëanor was not with his sons in the East, but in Hithlum, in the white town by the lake of Mithrim that Fingolfin had built as his capital for the long peace.  He was watching Fingolfin, wondering whether to reveal himself.

The fluted stone towers and smooth slate roofs of Noldorin houses reflected in the still waters of the lake. Higher up on the hills around the lake-shore, the finely-carved wooden homes of the grey-elves were set among avenues of birch and rowan trees, pale and bare now that winter lay upon the land.

The dark lake reflected at first only stars, but as the night drew on, there came a red light in the eastern sky. Bells began ringing in alarm: there was a smell of smoke on the air.

Fingolfin, awoken, watched in horror as the seeing-stones showed the rivers of fire running over Ard-Galen, covering the plain faster than a horse could gallop. The far-listeners carried the sound of screaming, until one by one, the seeing stones went black, and the listeners were silent.

By the time Fingolfin, and Fëanor silently with him, had reached Barad Eithel, the fortress on the pass to the mountain-walls of Hithlum, the plain was a fearful sight : a sullen red where the rivers of fire still smouldered, black and scorched where the long grass had burned, and across the blackness crawled countless armies of orcs, armed and armoured in iron.

The cunning map that Curufin had invented, which so elegantly traced each enemy unit on the plain in blue light, was nothing but a wash of swirling blue. Here and there, runes still readable marked out notable parts of the enemy forces: Balrog, they said. Balrog. Balrog. Dragon.

The seeing-stones of Ard-Galen had gone out, but those set high in the passes of Dorthonion, upon the walls of the Pass of Aglon, looking West from Mount Rerir over Maglor’s Gap, and set on the towers of Himring itself still showed the terrible tale unfolding.

Maglor’s horsemen, what was left of them, fleeing rivers of fire, desperately trying to reach the stronghold of Himring. Orcs swarming into the hills of Dorthonion in great numbers: Aegnor’s desperate, hard-fought retreat, valley by valley, hill by hill, every foot of land contested as he fell back towards the Pass of Anach. Angrod’s stronghold on the borders of Ladros falling before the whips of the Balrogs.

Fëanor’s sons swept away from the Pass of Aglon by sheer, impossible numbers. The orc-army swarming up Mount Rerir to Caranthir’s stronghold, in numbers so great that the whole mountainside was black with them.

Fëanor went with Fingolfin in the counter-attack from the Ered Wethrin, but they did not get far. The smoke and burning ground set fear in even the horses descended out of Valinor. The sheer numbers of the orcs made it impossible to advance on foot where the ground was passable, and behind them were the red whips of the Balrogs, driving on the orcs and directing the rivers of fire to where they would do most harm.

Fëanor was in no danger from the orcs, but he could neither slay nor set fear in such serried ranks of them, filled with such a deadly hate. The very ground was woven with the thoughts of Morgoth, cutting into his spirit, clouding its light. He had no choice but to retreat with Fingolfin’s people.

 

* * * *

 

There was no dawn that day, or the next. There was only a faint grey light that filtered through the fumes still belching from Thangorodrim’s craters. Ash fell like burning snow. The air smelled of hot metal and sulphur.

Legions of orcs threw themselves at the mountains, seeking any gap in the cliffs that might offer a possible way into Hithlum. Every gap and slope that was not a sheer cliff must be defended, and the pass of Eithel Sirion most of all.

Fingon, in armour, with his knights about him, moved tirelessly along the cliffs, encouraging the defenders, identifying weak spots, moving troops to defend each move by the enemy.

Fëanor watched silently at the gates of Barad Eithel, which stood now not far from the place where he had met his death. Here, on the mountainside where he had died, the spirit-sword was strongest, and many orcs felt it before they came near to the tall gate in the wall of the fortress of Fingolfin.

Fingolfin tried more sorties onto the plains, and each time he was flung back. From Fingolfin’s tower on the heights of Barad Eithel, you could see far across the burned and blackened plains that had been Ard-Galen, that now people were beginning to call Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. In the seeing stones of the tower, Fingolfin watched the bitter defeat unfold.

Fingon came to the tower one night, tired and bloody from the battle on the walls, bringing reports and seeking counsel, and found his father alone.

“The line is still holding,” Fingon reported, though Fingolfin could see that for himself. “But we still can find no way to get a force large enough to hold its own out through the gates in battle order...” He paused and looked curiously at his father. “What’s the matter?”

“Hador died today, “ Fingolfin told him.

Fingon’s grey eyes widened in shock “Oh no.”

“They tried to take the Westgate this morning, while you were up at Barad Niniach.”  Fingolfin’s voice was harsh and cracked.  “He was in the sortie with me.  My rear-guard.  He drove them back. He bought us long enough that we could bring down the cliff to block the way. Sixty-five years. That was all the life he had. Sixty-five! If he had been my son, I would have thought him still too young to fight. Yet he died defending my walls, and he bought me my life.”

“He would not have wanted anything else,” Fingon said.

“No. He would not. And Men are not children. But now he’s gone. No return to life, for Hador. No waiting in the halls of Mandos, no meeting again in Valinor, no matter how distant. He’s gone beyond the world.”

“He’d say, have a drink and don’t be so serious,” Fingon pointed out.

Fingolfin laughed, a short choking laugh. “He would. You’re right, he would. Remember how he used to say; ‘life is short, so enjoy it’? I don’t know how he did that. They are strange people, Men.”

“We owe him and his people a great debt.”

“We do. And I have no hope of paying it now. I would be happy to have no more obligations I cannot meet, and debts I cannot pay. Enemies I cannot defeat.”

Fingon poured him a cup of thin, sweet apple wine. “It’s a sore point. Have a drink for Hador while you think how you will get us out of it.”

Fëanor, who had been quietly watching the battle raging around Himring in one of Fingolfin’s seeing stones, thought that he had never expected to feel sorry for Fingolfin until that moment.

* * * * *

 

The army of Nargothrond marched behind their lord, Finrod son of Finarfin, through nightfall and dark, ash shaded days, along the road past Tol Sirion, heading north as swiftly as they could, into battle. The watery pools and tall rushes of the Fen of Serech lay across the swiftest route into Dorthonion. There was no road across the fens wide enough for the heavily-armoured regiments of Nargothrond to advance along in order.

In the Fens, Finrod’s army, strung out along winding paths and causeways, no more than four abreast, were attacked by clouds of shrieking bats. They drove between the companies, sending them reeling back in confusion. Small swift groups of wolf-riders struck out of the reeds and vanished into the murk.

The Eldar are surefooted, but in this land of shifting mud and water, in semi-darkness, the goblins on their small, four-footed sharp-toothed steeds had the advantage. To the people of Fingolfin, looking down from the beleaguered forts in the mountains of the Ered Wethrin into the valley far below, it was all too clear what was happening, but they could do nothing to prevent it: even bows could not reach far enough, and there was no way down.

Finrod’s army was being carved into pieces.

Fëanor had come up to the clifftop when the word had gone out in Barad Eithel that Finrod’s army was in sight. Hundreds of feet below him in the wide valley, the dark fens spread out along the faint river-glimmer, reflecting what little light was in the sky. The blue flickering of the swords of Finrod’s soldiers shone in the pools. They were fighting like heroes, but it was clear that retreat was their only chance: they would never be able to pass the Fens and re-form into a fighting force, let alone bring aid to Finrod’s brothers in Dorthonion.  Small groups of them upon the flanks were being pulled down, some killed, some taken into darkness by many reaching hands.

In the perception of Fëanor’s spirit, the coiling black of Morgoth’s thought, darker than the darkness, still stopped short of the banks of the young river Sirion and the edges of the marshland, although there were orcs moving in the gloom along the riverbank. It was a sheer drop, several hundred feet down the grey cliff-face and then the steep slope of the hillside dropping down to the water. No living creature without wings could have made the leap.

Fëanor looked down, and thought that, after all, Finrod was a nephew, more or less.  He had not only followed Fingolfin across the ice to avenge his grandfather and strike a blow against the Enemy. He had published Fëanor’s survey of the dialects of the languages of Men, too, and that without knowing the author’s real name or lineage.

Fëanor leapt.

Finrod was in the first company, furthest into the fens. There were not many of them left when Fëanor reached them: perhaps thirty still on their feet, grimed with mud and slime where they had been forced from the solid ground, around Finrod, their king. All around them, wolves were snarling and corpses sank in the mud.

On the path ahead, a strong force of armoured orcs stood, readying a charge. In the distance, sounds of battle could be heard, but the rest of the army of Nargothrond was out of sight behind enclosing walls of reeds. Finrod shouted words of power, his voice sounding harsh and strained, looking over his shoulder, south. The shield-wall locked into place and the orcs swayed backwards as Finrod’s fierce will sent waves of power against their minds: images of trees of gold, bright stars above. Some of the orcs quailed and ran. But not enough of them.

Fëanor crashed joyfully into the flank of the orcs before they could move, knocking many of them into the water. He could feel strength flowing into him from Sirion, and had time to wonder, between furious, skillful satisfying blows, if that was because the stream ran down from his death-place, or if the river itself carried some protective power against the Enemy.

The orcs before him were wavering, but another force of warg-riders had come out of the rushes to engage the already hard-pressed Elves on the other side, the shallow water splashing as they crashed into the long shields. Was there no end to them? One of Finrod’s people went down into the slime, and then another.   Finrod himself stepped into the line to face his foes.  He could not last long like that : no-one could fight with sword and word at the same time.

And then, suddenly out of the East, a volley of arrows, right into the orcish ranks. There was shouting close at hand, a war-cry “Dorthonion! Dorthonion!” and again the arrows came. The orcs shrieked, died, and ran, north along the raised pathway and away out of sight.

The new force was made up of Men out of Dorthonion; Aegnor’s people from the hills just East of the fens. They were well used to this country, where they had often come to hunt and fish in time of peace. Finrod and his valiant few talked with them for some little while, and Finrod handed over some token to their leader. Then he turned and headed South. The Men vanished, back into the reeds, to cover their retreat from the small, flat-bottomed boats where they had hidden.

Fëanor took up a position on the causeway, just north of where Finrod’s people had stood. Orcs were already starting to move cautiously back down the path, and arrows splashed into the pools around him. He grinned at them, let just a little of his essence flare through into the corporeal world, and hefted the spirit-sword.

* * * * *

 

In Barad Eithel, surrounded by seeing-stones, Fingolfin watched the army of Nargothrond retreat, back to the safety of Tol Sirion on its river-isle, and then further south, to Nargothrond itself. He watched the dragon crawl unstopped south through Maglor’s Gap. He saw Curufin and Celegorm fleeing West, fighting their way with difficulty past the impenetrable protections of Doriath, which offered neither shelter nor aid. He saw Caranthir fleeing South, away from his burning stronghold, and Maedhros stride with Maglor along the battlements of Himring, sweeping back attack after attack, and still new enemies flung themselves at his walls.

In the hills of Dorthonion, defending the passes as the grey-elves fled South, Fingolfin watched, as Aegnor son of Finarfin was slain, two days after his brother Angrod.

With him died the last remnant of the Noldor of Dorthonion, all those who had not fled the land that had been theirs for more than four hundred years. Beside them had stood grey-elves and Men, but it was hard to tell the difference now, through the gaze of the stone that had been set up outside Aegnor’s great hall. The hall was burning now, and it was the firelight that lit the scene enough that the bodies could be dimly seen. Dorthonion had fallen to the Enemy.

Fingolfin sat, terribly still, before the seeing-stones, as his dead half-brother watched with him, silent. At last he stood, and went out onto the high terrace that surrounded the tower. It was quiet out there, for the first time in days: the orc-armies had retreated a little. Their camps, massed on the plains, awaiting another attack, could barely be seen. The elf-archers of Hithlum had taught them to be wary of carrying torches too close to the mountain-walls. The troops in the field had withdrawn a little way. Perhaps they were preparing for some new assault.

He looked out East, where the massive red glow of Thangorodrim burned beneath a dark and starless sky, and then west. The mountains stood in the way, tall and dark against the sky, like a wall. Morgoth’s dark ash-cloud stretched above them to the horizon.

Fingolfin took a deep, controlled breath, and went back down the tower steps, calling for his horse.

Fëanor was the only one who followed him, as the small sally gate was thrown open and Fingolfin the King galloped out onto the charred plains, heading for Angband. The armies of Morgoth were no obstacle, they leaped aside in terror at his passing. To Fëanor’s eyes, the fire of Fingolfin’s spirit blazed out from him, furious and unafraid.

Fëanor could not let him go alone, even though the touch of Morgoth’s thought burned dark on Fëanor’s spirit as he followed his brother to confront their enemy.

 

* * * * *

Fingolfin, armoured and armed, shone like a star before the dark might of Morgoth. Morgoth trod slowly, heavily, his huge mace in his hand, reluctantly from the iron gates and stood at last revealed under the dark grey skies, there on the plain, black with ash where the air was sharp with smoke.

Fëanor tried to rush to Fingolfin’s side, seeing his enemy at last in clear sight and vulnerable, but he could not. He was held back, forcibly restrained by some power he could feel but not see.

A voice spoke to him. “Now, you can’t do that. Single combat was the promise. It’s not single combat if you join in. My lord has promised that he will fight your brother alone. A demonstration of his strength and power, against the warmongers out of the West, if you will. And so, alone he will fight. I will see to it.”

He struggled. Let me go! You cannot hold me!

“Oh, I can. And I will. You may have been born to be the mightiest of the Children of Illuvatar, but I? I sang, before the Children of Illuvatar were ever thought of. I have powers you don’t, my lord Fëanor, and they are all the greater here and now, when you stand unbodied before the Gates.”

Fëanor stilled for a moment. Why? Why did Morgoth come out for Fingolfin?

The golden voice laughed. “And not for you? But he did not need to come out for you, did he? The leader of a little force, impetuous, cut to pieces in short order? Oh, don’t struggle, it’s not an insult. He did not need to deal with you personally. You were not known in this Middle-earth. But your brother is the king of a great people now, his name goes far afield. He has trapped my lord in Angband for too long, and now he has called him coward. My lord must show that Fingolfin can be slain. Like a disobedient orc... stay still , won’t you?” Whatever was holding him jerked tighter, cut into his spirit like a blade.

Fëanor tried to strike out at the unseen voice with the spirit-sword, but he could not move. The bindings burned like thin lines of fire, but worst than that was the humiliation of being held in place like one of Morgoth’s thralls. All he could do was watch.

Six times, Fingolfin struck his enemy. Six times, Morgoth cried out in agony. His mighty hammer was too slow, too slow to catch Fingolfin, who moved like lightning, like the light of star that travels vast distances before the eye can blink. Fëanor began to hope.

But even the speed of Fingolfin could not last forever. At last he slowed and stumbled. Fëanor fought with a renewed fire, and felt the cords that held him begin to break, but it was too late.

It only took one misstep, one fall. Fingolfin somehow managed to lift the sword one last time, as he lay, and hew in desperation at his enemy’s foot. But then, without a word, Morgoth broke Fingolfin’s neck.

“And so my lord has shown his strength,” the unseen golden voice said, and Fëanor could not decide if it was triumphant or disappointed.

Morgoth turned, dragging the great hammer, Grond, and limped away, back through the vast gates.

The gates ground closed behind him. The binding that had held Fëanor broke at last, and he whirled, looking for the enemy that had held him, but there was no sign of it any more.

Fingolfin’s spirit stepped from his broken body. It shone, clear and bright in that dark place. Brighter than Fëanor. Only the faintest darkness clouded his light.

Finwë’s two eldest sons stood face to face again at last.

Brother! Fëanor said and grasped him by the shoulder. Fingolfin’s light flared in surprise. You followed me. I never thought you would.

I have long desired to speak with you again, Fingolfin said slowly. I wish it had happened in another way. Thou shalt lead and I will follow, I said, before the throne of Manw ë himself. I meant it.

And now I know it. I wish I had understood it sooner. You were loyal beyond my hope...

Fëanor paused, groping unexpectedly for the words that usually came so easily. The memory of Maedhros kneeling before Fingolfin came back to him. I am sorry, he said, inadequately.

You should have believed me! It would have saved so much pain... So much work, and people, and lives, all wasted!

Yes, Fëanor admitted. Fingolfin looked taken aback at that, as if he had been expecting an argument.

I would have fought by your side, Fëanor told him. I tried to come to you sooner. His servant prevented me.

That, I believe with a whole heart.  No-one has ever accused Fëanor of being afraid of a fight! I should go, Fingolfin said, turning to the West, then turning back to his brother. I hear the call of Mandos. But you have not followed it...? There was a questioning note in his voice.

I have not. But we are not the same, brother. You have no oath to hold you. Go freely, and my thanks go with you.  For you have wounded our enemy. I can only hope to do the same.

Fingolfin gave him a last long hesitating look. I swore to follow you, brother. I have followed you to the death. Now I take my own path. Farewell until we meet again!

He turned and passed swiftly away. The light of his spirit was lost between the blue of the sky and the deeper blue of the distant mountains.

Farewell brother, Fëanor said to himself. It was hard to imagine that he might ever miss Fingolfin. His company could drive any sane person to fury. And yet...

Fëanor turned and went away East across the charred plain. Behind him, a great Eagle stooped and lifted Fingolfin’s body, taking it before the orcs could bring dishonour to it, and winged off south towards Gondolin.