Orodreth: the hollow crown by Encaitariel

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Chapter 1

Orodreth: the hollow crown

 

FA 465 – Great Hall, Nargothrond

 

"Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold my bond!" *

 

King Finrod Felagund’s words clashed with the sharp rapport that rang out as he threw the diadem of Nargothrond to the ground at his feet, echoing in the fearful silence of the Great Hall.

 

"Yet if there be any on whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence as a beggar that is thrust from the gates." *

 

Having pushed his way through the crowd almost to the brink, Orodreth, commander of the Amon Ethir garrison and brother-son to the King, was arrested by these words. As their weight hung in the stillness of the Hall, he felt the warmth drain from his fëa; dizzy incomprehension settling in its place. His world was, in his life’s oft-repeated refrain, inverting and he was at a loss to understand why.

 

As a son of kings, nay as an ellon, he knew what he ought to do. His place was beside his uncle up on the dias, standing between him and those of little faith who stood before him. His fëa urged him forward – how easy those few steps should be. And yet, as in all his nightmares of Minas Tirith, his body would not obey. He could only stand and watch in detached horror as the scene flowed inexorably around him.

 

In the moment when his King's eyes passed over him, as it seemed to him without acknowledgement, his fëa burned with shame. By his inaction, he was no better than those around him who heeded the insidious words of the Sons of Fire; longer worthy to be called a prince of the House of Finwë.

 

With such thoughts in his heart, Orodreth watched as Edrahil, Captain of Nargothrond, stepped before the King, the fallen silver and emerald diadem of Nargothrond in his hands. The diadem that the King’s nephew ought to have raised from the ground.

 

Slowly, a small company formed around their Captain: Laicognô of Ossiriand, Berianon, the young brothers Nendil and Herdir, Galanon Îdhirion… ‘Only ten,’ Orodreth thought sadly.

 

Edrahil looked up at his King with eyes firm in resolution, his voice carrying easily through the entire Hall.

 

"Faithfulness bids us leave: you to honor your oath to Barahir the Brave, and we our oaths to you, our King. We beg that you give your crown to a steward to keep in trust until you return. For you remain my King, and theirs, whatever betide." *

 

In his immobile nightmare state, panic seized Orodreth. Had Edrahil looked to him when he spoke of choosing a steward? No, he must be mistaken. The Captain must know that Orodreth had always refused Finrod’s request, before.

 

But, no, Edrahil cannot mean to ask him. Finrod must remember… They must know... ‘Valar, please, no.'

 

The King travelled often, and for long periods of time. He often placed the wellbeing of his City in the hands of a steward. In the past, Finrod had always asked Orodreth first. In the past, he had said that he wished to place the care of his City into the hands of his brother’s son. In the past, Orodreth had always refused. In the past, his uncle had looked at him with compassionate understanding, and the duty had been passed to someone else.

 

Now, there was no one else. Now, Finrod would ask again, before the host of Nargothrond and the Sons of Fire. Now, Orodreth could not refuse.

 

He began shaking. One thought, one fear, echoing through his mind… Minas Tirith. It always came back to Minas Tirith.

 

At last, Finrod turned his eyes fully on his nephew. The resolve of a son of the House of Finwë burned in his gaze. Silently, he beckoned Orodreth to him.

 

Freed from his paralysis, Orodreth moved forward; heedless of all else around him. As in a waking nightmare, he reached the foot of the dais, and looked up at his King. Finrod’s clear, strong voice broke through the fog of his inner turmoil.

 

"Orodreth, son of my brother and son of the House of Finarfin, I charge thee with the care of my People, Nargothrond. My authority is thine, thy word is as mine." As he moved to place the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond on his nephew's head, Orodreth bowed in resignation.

 

The King pulled his Steward into an embrace of kinship.

 

As he held his nephew close, Finrod whispered in his ear: "Remember the words of the Vala and 'love not too well the work of thy hands, nor the devices of thy heart'."

 

Pulling away, the King turned and walked out the door behind his throne, his newly formed Company following.

 

Once again, silence reigned in the Great Hall; the multitude frozen and uncomprehending.

 

In the stillness, Orodreth turned and gazed out over the people for the first time as their Steward. These were his people now; there was no hope of escape or recall. Orodreth examined the curious feeling that was bubbling up in fëa as he looked out over the assembly. It was part terror and part resolve, part despair and part something else, which might have been hope, but which he didn’t want to examine too hard. It was both like and unlike the feelings he had had governing Minas Tirith. Ultimately, Orodreth hoped that the people felt more confidence in him, standing there wearing the diadem of their King, than he saw in them.

 

The Sons of Fëanor were the first to stir. Sure in their victory, they swept out of the Hall, those around them parting for their passage with more fear than deference. It was with a deep sense of foreboding that Orodreth noted their pleased looks. In the depths of his fëa, he knew that no good could come when those two smiled.

 

Then, as the weight and reality of the events they had just witnessed dawned on the Nargothrondrim, fear and dread ran as a quicksilver current through the assembly. They fled, quickly and without sound. The Great Hall emptied until the new Steward was the only one who remained.

 

Alone, and with no need to maintain appearances, he dropped down to sit on the steps of Finrod's dais. He removed the King’s diadem from his head and stared at it.

 

Such a little thing, and yet so heavy with meaning. No longer on the head of the King, it seemed to lose its power. Still, Orodreth thought it was as lovely as ever: twining silver strands, surrounding emeralds that seemed to shine with an inner fire in the light of the Noldorin lamps illuminating the Hall. There was no denying the beauty of the creation, but it no longer seemed the emblem of a great king’s power.

 

‘It is hollow,’ he thought with a frown, holding it loosely in his hands. ‘As hollow as the Steward who now bears it.’

 

“So hollow.”

 

He didn’t realize that the words had been spoken aloud until a pair of hands, slender and firm, touched his around the diadem. He looked up into the eyes of his daughter, Finduilas.

 

Her gaze was resolute as she slowly removed the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond from his hands. Carefully, reverently, she placed Finrod’s diadem upon his head.

 

“Not hollow, now,” she said.

Chapter End Notes

Amon Ethir: “The Hill of Spies”, the outpost and watchtower built on a high hill to the east of Nargothrond.

 

fëa: heart, soul, inner-most being

 

ellon: male Elf

 

Minas Tirith: The watchtower on Tol Sirion, guarding the easiest pass into western Beleriand. The Tower was built and ruled by Finrod before the founding of Nargothrond. After the building of his City, Tolkien tells us, Finrod appointed Orodreth to command the fortress. It was captured by Sauron two years after the Dagor Bragollach (ca. FA 458), and became Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the “Isle of Werewolves”: the final resting place of King Finrod and his Company. Oh, the bitter irony...

 

“the Sons of Fire”: an epithet I give to the Sons of Fëanor. At this time, Celegrom and Curufin (and their people) are residing with their cousin in Nargothrond; after having been driven from their own lands by the servants of Morgoth.

 

“the silver and emeralds of Nargothrond”: Tolkien talks of the “silver crown” of Nargothrond, and since the Ring of Barahir (which had belonged to Finrod and was a “badge of the House of Finarfin”) has an emerald set into it, I always associate silver and emeralds with Finrod and his City.

 

'love not too well the work of thy hands, and the devices of thy heart’: These words were actually spoken by the Vala Ulmo to Finrod’s cousin, Turgon. (The Silmarillion, Chapter 15: “Of the Noldor in Beleriand”) However, as close as those cousins seemed to be in spirit and counsel, I always imaged that Turgon would have shared the incident with Finrod. It also strikes me as a very “Finrod” saying.

 

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