By Stars' Light by Erfan Starled

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Chapter 14

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*** 469 Years of the Sun ~ Tol-in-Gaurhoth ***

 

Edrahil stirred as he roused from his rest. He turned his head in Finrod’s lap and reached up to touch Finrod’s face in wordless communication. He gave little sign of tension; from the first he had seemed strangely serene in his acceptance. Finrod kept a hand on him in weary caress, comforting himself with the simple touch.

 

They kept watch in turn, the three of them, though mostly they were all wakeful. He and Beren talked at times, keeping their voices low. Edrahil did not seem to feel the need to talk.

 

How strange, that they would end here, in the corrupted deeps of the hold they had built. They had met in the dim dark of Morgoth’s mists and even now he remembered how brightly the stars on the Ice had contrasted with the shadows in Alqualondë.

 

Unlike the far north in those long ago days, no stars blessed them now, though they were spared the bitter cold; Edrahil felt warm to the touch. He stroked the wild hair into rough order and started to plait it, long habit, and one they both enjoyed.

 

The Helcaraxë had not damaged Edrahil’s hands permanently. The performance at the Mereth Aderthad had proved that beyond any doubt. Irony that a song for Fëanor could have pierced Finrod’s heart and set him on his own path of healing, at last able to mourn the belovéd of his youth and the city that had such claim on his younger heart.

 

The years had passed so fast. He wished he had spent more time sailing off the Falas… He never had taken Glorfindel sailing with Círdan.

 

He started on a plait the other side of Edrahil’s head, glad of the time they had shared.

 

When had he forgiven his cousin Fingon? He did not know. After his uncle had shown him Nargothrond’s caves. Before they had finished building. Life had a way of moving on. He smiled to remember.

 

“Edrahil,” he said, softly. “Still so quiet? It is a good name, but Sindamíro was the better. I have not told you often enough how beautiful you are.”

 

He had known the curse on all who followed the Kinslayers would inexorably find him out, as it had others before him. He had not known how. Yet the intervening years had been good to them. He moved his fingers gently in Edrahil’s hair, enjoying the murmured response.

 

When Celegorm spoke against him, Finrod had thought he would have to go alone, betrayed and abandoned, his audience ensnared by gift and curse alike.

 

He had been ashamed for his people though he knew they had all been trapped by Thingol’s demand, his own promise and a bitter oath. Perhaps one day he could stand before Lord Manwë. He hoped so. He had a question for him. Why had He refused their stand against the Black Enemy in these lands? Would He have preferred the shy Laiquendi and brave Sindar to stand alone, isolated and over-run in the face of Morgoth’s depredations and ambitions? And what of Men, in a land where Morgoth ruled unchecked?

 

Why would Manwë leave evil uncontested? Perhaps Fëanor’s accusations of cowards left behind had not been so far out. Moral cowardice in the Lord of the Valar? Ifs won no wars, but he could not help imagining Fëanor’s pursuit, sanctioned, supported and all this wide world without that oath and the cursed doom that went with it…

 

But Edrahil had not been afraid of Celegorm or his oath. Nor had twisted words tainted him with belief of their insidious cautions. He had looked down his nose at the two princes who knew him as their father’s servant and scorned their persuasions. He had stood with Finrod on the Ice, had built two citadels with him, and mounted a watch that had never failed them. He stood at Finrod’s side as he was betrayed in his own stronghold. He stood with him still, unflinching even here.

 

In these dark depths, there had been no betrayals. Twelve there had been of Nargothrond’s people who came with him. One remained. Yet buried out of light, out of hope, out of life itself, loyalty had burned like a beacon, lighting the way to Mandos’ halls.

 

With all else fallen away, one hope remained.

 

“Sindamíro, heart of my heart, I swear I will never stop looking for you in Eldamar, no matter how long Mandos keeps you. By stars’ light and Ithil’s shadows, I promise you I will be looking for you when you are returned to us.”

 

“And I intend to come hunting you, unless the stars have fallen first and the world ended.” Finrod could hear him smiling.

 

“Hush, never say so.” His heart ached at the thought of Mandos’ promise. Not lightly would the Vala pity a kinslayer.

 

“The world is full of beauty and we have seen more than our fair share. Shall I sing for you? One more time?”

 

Finrod bent to kiss him. “Yes. Shock these stones with glory, and let your song reach to the stars since their light cannot stretch down to us here.”

 

Out of the dark rose a bitter-sweet, familiar melody that had not lost its power to pluck his heart-strings.

 

Uryala úruva, rúcina háya,

Massë nárotya?

Massë calatya?

Mana ré, vinya omentielva nó elenilanta?

 

Lírinen, enyalin alcaretya,

Ar lómissë,

Írë tintilar i eleni, yar cenner tye mahta

Undu oioliltalelta

Enyalin úretya.

 

Marta mettatya ar voronda endatya,

Yón ataretya.

Enda vórima

Náro úrin,

Áni tana i tië

Ya lertan hilya

Liltien elvëa úressë menelo

Tennoio lehta Ambar-lúmello.

 

Unshed tears thickened Finrod’s throat at the change of words. Edrahil’s was the faithful heart, though they had all been fated. He set a hand on both companions, Beren on his right, who sat silent beside them, listening but giving them time to talk uninterrupted, and Edrahil leaning against Finrod. Finrod’s voice when he spoke resonated in the dark, defiant. “Know this, I have no regrets about my choice.”

 

“Nor I,” said Edrahil, warrior minstrel, rising to his feet too fast for Finrod to stop him. “Remember it, in this life and after. Hold him back!”

 

That last he cried to Beren, who managed to delay Finrod, despite their frantic struggle. Red points of light blinked and an evil hurring growl shook their bones.

 

Still lithe despite injury and lack of water, light and food, Edrahil’s steps could be heard moving out in front of them.

 

The beast prowled closer, and Edrahil stood his ground, feet planted motionless in the dark. Finrod fought in silence to break free and go to him, even while he listened intently for sound of Edrahil, watched in despair the eyes slinking across the pit…

 

His voice came out of the darkness, breathless but loving and with all his dry humour, as the wolf moved in.

 

“Stop fighting and listen to me. Look for me in Aman when you find yourself there, but love as love finds you with all my blessing. Years of grace you have given me, and I would not steal all your years to come in fruitless waiting. When I am spared to follow you into life once more, there will be nothing owing between us.”

 

Finrod’s cry as the werewolf sprang should have shattered the darkness and brought the very walls down upon them.

 

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Before it returned, he had time to give Beren the translation he asked for and to teach him the song through his tears.

 

Burning brightly, fled far hence,

Where thy fire?

Where, thy light?

When, our reunion before stars’ fall?

 

In song I remember thy glory

And in the night

By stars’ shine, who saw thee fight

Under their endless dance,

I think of thy heat.

 

Fated thy end and faithful thy heart,

Son of thy father.

True heart,

Bright fire,

Show me the path

That I may follow

To dance star light in heaven’s heat

And keep earthly time no more.

 

When he stood in his turn alongside Beren, fighting ready, he murmured softly into the dark, “True heart, ‘tis I who follow thee.” He had time to smile fleetingly, as he and the werewolf leapt at the same moment – the wolf at Beren and he squarely in its path. 

 

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Chapter End Notes

 

Names

Tol-in-Gaurhoth – Isle of Werewolves, once Tol Sirion.

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In the Year of the Sun 469, Finrod died in a lightless pit of Sauron’s making on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the captured island site of his own former citadel of Minas Tirith. Taken prisoner with thirteen others when helping Beren as Finrod was sworn to do, he survived while one by one they died as Sauron sought to discover their purpose. Throughout the bitter questioning, none betrayed the King’s identity or Beren’s intention to steal a Silmaril from Morgoth.

 

Edrahil had been chief among those who volunteered to go with Finrod when Celegorm, driven by his oath, spoke with great craft against any of the people of Nargothrond aiding Finrod in his mission. Finrod died saving Beren from the werewolf that attacked him. Beren escaped and from his descendants was born Elrond of Imladris.

 

*** Note on story structure ***

 

While this story was being written, a coherent structure and time-line eluded me despite advice. The above notes are what I added to expand on a story whose ending I did not explain but only told a scene from. There is the possibility of fleshing out the missing time, relationship and events, or of splitting the story into a getting together drama romance, and a separate tragic epilogue. Meanwhile, this is its present incarnation.