Dragon Deception by Mimi Lind

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Captured

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3. Captured

Finduilas was dragging her feet forward. Breathe out, breathe in. Breathe out, breathe in. 

A loud crack preceded the sting of the orc captain’s whip as it hit her bare ankle, but by now she was too tired even to flinch, and if her captors wanted her to move faster they’d have to carry her. She had no spare energy left.

She heard muffled sobs around her, but could no longer muster the willpower to care about anyone else. At first she and some of the others who were relatively uninjured had treated the wounded, trying to heal their burns and cuts, but they had soon given up. What was the point anyway? There was no use treating wounds which would never heal. Not when they were driven so hard; a few hours in the middle of the day was all the rest the orcs allowed them. Already a few had died. 

No, it was easier not to think about her fellow captives, and just focus on moving her feet, one after the other, and listen to her ragged breaths and the thundering pulse in her ears. 

Most of the time she managed to keep her mind blank, but sometimes she couldn’t hold back the memories. Her mother dying with a dagger in her chest. Their home engulfed in flames. Dead bodies littering the underground streets of the city, and the revolting stench of burned flesh. Wailing elflings clutched in the arms of their terrified mothers. Ashes and soot everywhere. And the dragon… That horrifying dragon tricking the man she loved, and sending him away on a fool’s errand.

Now it was Finduilas who couldn’t hold back a sob. She had lost everything.

The first few days she had made escape plans. The elf-women would turn on their captors and flee into the woods. They would not become slaves of Morgoth! She had conspired with the others during their midday rest, when most of the orcs slept, and then waited for an opportune moment. 

But none had come. The orcs were too careful; they never forgot to assign guards, and they never took the prisoners’ bonds off. With each day Finduilas grew more weary and less hopeful. Even if they found their opportune moment, by now they would probably be too weak to take it.

Instead, all she could do was focus on the present, surviving one more minute, one more hour, one more day. 

oOo

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. 

The charred grass suddenly gave way to gravel. She only noticed it because the tramp of her feet sounded different, and now she listlessly raised her heavy eyes. 

Water. A river. 

What river was it? The Sirion? No, they had gone north from Nargothrond. The Teiglin then. That must mean they were nearing the Crossings, and that in turn meant they were getting closer to Angband and the Dark Lord’s realm. Time was running out.

They continued along the river, and Finduilas could smell water in the air. She inhaled it in deep draughts. Her mouth was so dry. Would the orcs let her drink when they stopped for the day? So far all they had given her was a foul, strong beverage that burned her throat painfully.

Midday came, but the orcs didn’t slow their pace; for some reason they seemed unusually hurried. Dismayed and beyond thirsty, the elf-maids had to continue walking. 

When they arrived at the Crossings in the evening, Finduilas understood why they hadn’t stopped that day. The river was wide like a lake here, though shallow enough to wade through, and out there the orcs would be very exposed. They wanted to make use of the darkness of night to cross.

Looking at the rippling surface, and the dark shade of the forest of Brethil at the other side, Finduilas instinctively knew it was now or never; this was the moment they had waited for. If they would overturn the orcs, it had to be here, aided by the water and with a forest to seek refuge in afterwards.

She glanced at the captives closest to her, and saw they realized this too. But could they muster enough energy? They had to try, at least.

“Stones,” she whispered, so silently only the elves could hear, and looked pointedly at the rocky riverbank.

Several of the others made near invisible nods.

The orcs were already starting to cross, leading their prisoners behind them. Gasps and hisses came from the latter as the icy, late-autumn stream engulfed them. Finduilas noticed a few discreetly palm something from the bottom as they bent down to drink. Stones. They had gotten her message and would be ready, waiting for a signal to attack.

But when should that be? Now, the orcs in the rearguard were still on the shore, where they could wield their weapons freely. Besides whips they all carried swords, and some had spears as well. Therefore, the best moment would probably be when they were all out in the water – but what if the forerunners crossed quickly? From the other shore they could easily throw their spears at anyone who tried to break free. 

Finduilas rubbed her chafed wrists, trying to make her mind work through the sluggish haze of exhaustion. Now or later? It was risky to attack early, but also risky to wait.

A chill trickled down her spine as she suddenly imagined two possible futures rolling out before her. Which choice she made now meant life or death for many more than her.

Closing her eyes, she sent a silent thought to Ulmo, beseeching the Vala of the seas to help her decide. When she opened her eyes again she noticed a thin mist forming over the river. An answer! Ulmo had heard her plea! 

With the mist present, the orcs remaining ashore wouldn’t see clearly what happened out in the water – and the rush of the river would drench out any sounds as well. 

Attack early. That was what she would do.

The water was near freezing, and her legs immediately started to numb. It hurt too, a sharp, piercing pain like from a thousand needles – but for that, she was almost thankful. It roused her from the daze which had kept her trapped for so many days, making her alert and awake again. Crouching with her bound hands before her, pretending to take a sip of water, she subtly picked up a smooth stone and slipped it between them. 

Further out, the mist caressed her cheeks as if Ulmo wanted to sooth her and cheer her on. She turned towards the orc nearest to her. It struck her how small orcs were; this didn’t even reach her waist, and yet she had let them torment her for so many days. No more of that!

She chose a moment when the orc looked the other way. Bracing herself, she smashed her fists into his face with all the strength she could muster. The stone added to the impact, making the creature reel backward with a surprised yelp as a gush of blood poured out of his nose. 

Finduilas lost no time to see if anyone was following her example; she jumped on top of the injured orc and tried to fell him. He scrabbled for his sword, but she quickly used her bound hands as a snare around his neck. Pushing him under the surface, she held him down, ignoring his kicks. The orc bit her hard, his sharp fangs sinking deep into the soft flesh of her arm, but she didn’t care. She felt nothing in this icy water anyway.

Still struggling to hold the orc down, she stole a glance around her and noticed several captives wrestling with their targets, and one elf-maid had somehow managed to get hold of an orc sword. She was wielding it with her hands still tied together, hacking her way forward and leaving dead and bleeding orcs in her wake.

Then angry yells and curses sounded from the shore they had left; the remaining guards must have realized what was happening. Finduilas heard rapid splashes as they ran into the river. This was bad, but at least they couldn’t use their spears in the fog. She hoped she would have time to escape to the other shore and run into the forest before they could reach her.

If only the accursed orc she fought would die already! He was still working hard to get loose, and though he had ceased trying to bite her now, instead he was scratching her legs and belly with his claw-like nails. She didn’t want to think about how her body must look. 

Despite the chill of the water, Finduilas felt sweat break out on her forehead. She was so tired, and the rush of adrenaline that had helped her attack was waning fast. Close behind her, she heard the rearguard coming to aid their comrades.

Was this it? Had she tried to escape in vain? 

Suddenly there was a new sound ahead; voices. Male voices.

Túrin! He had come back!

Squinting her eyes, she tried to see through the mist. There were shapes on the other shore, and they were hurrying out into the water. 

As they came closer, Finduilas realized they weren’t elves, but men. They must be the famous Men of Brethil. Even in Nargothrond, tales were told of the resilience and zeal of the inhabitants of this forest. 

Biting down a pang of disappointment that the man she loved wasn’t with them, Finduilas tried to focus on her task. At last her orc had stopped moving, and with shaking arms she dropped him and waded forward to meet the new arrivals.

Together with the men, Finduilas and the other females made short work of the remaining orcs. Exhilaration filled her as she looked at the many dead bodies. They had made it! She was free!

Then the mist cleared. Her joy faded and was replaced with dismay, for on the shore she had left lay at least a dozen elf-women in a pool of blood, all of them decapitated. The rearguard orcs must have killed their charges as soon as they realized the prisoners were turning on them. 

Hurrying back, she fell on her knees beside the pile of corpses, fighting down a wave of nausea. This would have happened to them all. If she had waited to attack, their captors would have killed all the prisoners when the Men of Brethil arrived.

Breathe in, breathe out. She had to calm down, but it was nearly impossible when she realized how close it had been. If Ulmo hadn’t intervened, Finduilas and everyone else would be dead now.

oOo

Finduilas watched the humans bury her fallen sisters, feeling numb and disconnected. It was done in the human way, by covering the corpses with earth to form a smooth mound and placing a small cairn of river stones on top to mark the place. 

She ought to say a proper goodbye to them, but she was so tired, and her arm hurt so badly she couldn’t think clearly. Again, her mind turned inward. Breathe in, breathe out. Stay calm. Don’t panic.

The captain of the humans was a man named Dorlas. “Where you gonna go now?” he asked. His accent was thick and hard to understand.

Finduilas shook herself out of her trance. 

“We don’t know.” She answered for all of them, hearing the desperation in her own voice. “Our people are all dead, our home is burned and the dragon guards it. We cannot go to Doriath, as Thingol will not allow Noldorin elves in his realm, and we cannot seek refuge with Círdan at the Mouths of Sirion in the south, for the journey there would take us too close to Nargothrond. We just don’t know.”

And that was the truth of it. When making her escape plans, she had never thought further than breaking free of the orcs. What then? How long could they survive alone in the wilds?

“Then you come with us,” Dorlas decided. “Stay in our forest ‘til youse wounds are healed, and then you can figure out what to do next.”

Finduilas gratefully accepted the offer. She wasn’t overly fond of humans, with their uncouth behavior and lack of hygiene, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. And some humans were nice, such as Túrin. She had thought he was an elf the first time they met.

Soon they were on their way, following a narrow path into the woods.

oOo

Breathe in, breathe out. One foot after the other. 

Finduilas didn’t remember much of the walk to the human settlement. She was so tired, and starved, and the arm where the orc had bitten her was swollen and sore, and above all else she wanted a bed.

When they finally arrived in the village she only caught glimpses of it in the pitch darkness. The buildings seemed to be little more than shanties among the trees, and the people who came to meet the newcomers were quite as ruffled as the men who had brought them there. 

The most wounded were taken to a healing hut, and there at last Finduilas could stretch her bruised limbs. Soon someone came to tend to her; a kind-looking man with a face covered in a thick beard. She regarded it curiously, suppressing an urge to touch it. Elf-men had no beards, and neither did Túrin, so she had never seen one up close before. 

“I am Brandir of the House of Haleth, leader of this settlement.” His accent was less prominent than Dorlas’. “I am also the most skilled healer here. Will you allow me to tend to your wounds?”

“Of course.” She smiled weakly, almost too exhausted even to move her lips. “Thank you for allowing us refuge. I am Finduilas, daughter of the late King Orodreth of Nargothrond.” She felt a stab in her chest when saying her father’s name; he had been killed in the recent battle, but she hadn’t had time to think about that yet.

The man looked impressed, and dipped his head. “You are welcome to stay for as long as you need. Finduilas.” He said her name slowly as if he liked the taste of it, and his eyes had grown large and dark. 

“Thank you, Brandir.” She broke eye-contact. Until she knew what had befallen Túrin, she wouldn’t encourage another man, no matter how handsome a beard he had.

oOo

Calmly walking under the eaves of the Brethil, Finduilas revelled in the fresh air, the beautiful trees and the sounds of all the living things around her.

After her wounds had healed, she had formed a habit of taking long walks in the forest to explore the surroundings and learning all the paths. In the past weeks she had grown to like her human hosts, except in one aspect: for some reason, there was a lack of women among them, and in consequence the men could sometimes be a bit overwhelming. It was flattering, but also tiring.

Today the weather was unusually warm and stifling for the time of year, and she decided to revisit the Crossings of Teiglin where the river would cool the air a little. She had been meaning to go there many times already, and see the grave again. Haudh-en-Ellith, as the place was called now – mound of the elf-women.

She knew of course that there was nothing left there to visit; the bodies were decaying and the souls had gone to the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps they had been reborn into Aman by now, as most elves are, and if so Finduilas might meet them again. Despite knowing this, she thought it would feel good to stand at the place where they had died and just remember them as they were. 

When she reached the edge of the forest, she slowed her pace and stepped almost soundlessly from trunk to trunk, looking for signs of danger. Orcs still roamed this area, and though the dragon was thought to have made a lair of Nargothrond and stayed inside most of the time, it must probably get out now and then to hunt. 

The coast seemed clear, and after drinking her fill from the river Finduilas sat down on a fallen trunk beside the burial site. It was a pleasant place, calm and secluded with the forest on one side and the river on the other. The earth on the mound was still naked and black, but she hoped it would be covered in soft grass and flowers in the spring. Perhaps she could return and look.

Finduilas turned her mind to all that had happened recently, from the attack on her city, onwards to the terror of the dragon and her capture. She forced herself to think of the torment she had endured under the orcs, and replayed for her inner eye how she had managed to break free at last. She remembered the sight of all the cruelly slaughtered elf-women on the other shore, and tried to forgive herself for surviving instead of many who probably had deserved it better. 

She thought of each slain elf, beginning with the ones resting here and continuing to everyone else in the city. She saved her parents to last; Father, whose death had been announced to her by a messenger from the battle in the Plains, and Mother, who had been killed during the attack on Nargothrond, stabbed through her heart when she and Finduilas had tried to defend themselves. And then, finally, she thought of the two she had loved; Gwindor, her betrothed who perished in the same battle as her father, and Túrin, probably long gone and dead in the north. Túrin was human and as such possessed the Gift of Men; when he died she would never see him again.

By now she was weeping freely, releasing both her grief, painful memories and her worries. 

After a long time her eyes had dried. She felt tired, yet somehow liberated, as if she had gotten rid of a heavy burden. She stayed at Haudh-en-Ellith for a while, relaxed and content, resting her eyes on the calm water of the Teiglin. Thunder rolled in the distance, and she smelled water in the air; a storm coming up. She didn’t mind. If the weather got too bad, she could seek shelter in the forest. 

Soon the sky turned iron gray, with huge bolts of lighting cleaving it, one after the other. The booms and cracks were deafening, and the accompanying rain heavy. Finduilas stood under a fir tree, protected by the brunt of the downpour by its dense foliage, and watched the spectacular show. It was both terrifying and beautiful, mesmerizing in its untamedness.

Suddenly she narrowed her eyes. Was that someone running? A pale shape was hastily approaching the Crossings from the south, as if chased by the black thunderclouds. 

The person arrived at the shallows and started out into the whirling water without hesitation. It looked like a naked elf-woman, one with golden blonde hair like herself. A Sinda? Finduilas had inherited her looks from her Sindarin mother, and she knew her fair colors were common among that people. But why was a Sinda walking around naked outside the magical borders of Doriath?

The naked maid had just crossed the river when a particularly loud thunderbolt made her wail and throw herself on the muddy surface of the burial mound, covering her ears and whimpering in terror.

Finduilas hastened from her shelter, unfastening her cloak and sweeping it over the other’s shivering body. She saw now it was no elf at all, but a young human woman, though she looked nothing like the dark-haired Men of Brethil. 

“Come with me, poor thing,” she cooed softly. “Let's get you out of this weather.” 

The other seemed not to hear, or maybe she didn’t understand? Her limbs were limp, but when Finduilas raised her on her feet she remained standing, and obediently allowed the elf to lead her in between the trees.

Instead of returning to the shelter of the fir tree, Finduilas decided to take her charge directly home to the village. Something was not quite right with the woman, though she couldn't say what was wrong – she had no visible injuries, apart from very sore feet.

Brandir would know what to do; for a human, he was a great healer.

On the way back, Finduilas tried asking questions, but the other remained mute and wouldn’t even say her name. It was strange, both her apathetic behavior and this seemingly inability to speak. Did she suffer from an illness of the mind?

They spent the night under some trees – thankfully the rain had ceased – and the mystery-woman slept soundly, but in the morning she was as unresponsive as the day before. When Finduilas took her hand, she went along docilely.

Back in the human settlement, the woman’s skin had become hot and her cheeks were flushed. Brandir hurriedly took her to the healing hut, and Finduilas followed them inside. 

“She has a fever,” he said after examining her. “Apart from that she seems healthy enough. But I wonder why she can’t talk?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t speak our language?” Finduilas suggested.

“I’ve tried my own language too. It made no difference.” Turning to the girl, Brandir looked at her imploringly, and she calmly met his gaze. “You’ve got to have a name, at least. You were found near the river. How about we call you Neniel – water-maiden?”

“Neniel,” repeated the girl. 

Brandir beamed at her, his cheeks flushing slightly. “So, you can speak, but maybe not any of our languages? Don’t worry. I’ll teach you, Neniel!”

“Neniel.” She returned his smile.

Finduilas couldn’t hold back a smug smile of her own. It seemed that Brandir had found another female to woo. 

oOo

Neniel's soft curls glided through Finduilas fingers as she nimbly braided the girl’s hair. She sat silent as usual, but seemed a lot less listless than when they first met. Lately she had joined the others at mealtimes, listened when they tried to teach her words, and even helped doing chores – in all this, she was a fast learner, so it was clear her wit wasn’t dim. But she rarely smiled.

"Brandir will be back any moment now," Finduilas said soothingly. The human leader had spent a lot of time trying to cheer Neniel up, but after a couple of days he had decided to take a few men to the Crossings and search the area for clues. Perhaps her family was there somewhere too? If so, finding them might disperse her melancholy. 

"Okay."

"I'm sure he will have good news."

"If you say so."

Not long afterwards, scouts announced that the warriors were returning, and that they brought a stranger with them. Wildman of the Woods, he called himself – and he was looking for Finduilas.

With a pounding heart, Finduilas went out to meet them with Neniel in tow. Could it be…?

The Men of Brethil walked first, some with bandaged heads, arms and legs – they had apparently been in a skirmish – and behind them, taller than the rest, Finduilas recognized a familiar dark head.

“Túrin!” Her strangled cry echoed between the trees as she ran into his arms, forgetting he probably didn’t want her to use his real name, forgetting everything but that he was alive.

“Finduilas.” His voice broke and she could feel him shaking. Then he held her away from him so he could look at her closely. “You live. The men said– But I couldn’t believe… My curse. My ill-fate. And yet you live! I shouldn’t come here to cast my shadow over you, and I shall soon leave, but I just had to make sure it was really you…”

“Don’t speak like that,” Finduilas sobbed, smiling through her tears. “You shall stay. I order it – and I’m the ruler of the remaining people of Nargothrond now, so you must do as I say.” She touched his cheek, and noticed he had sprouted a short beard on his chin. It suited him.

Túrin’s eyes became blank. “I– I suppose I cannot disobey such strict orders, my lady.” His smile was shaky. “And I promised Gwindor I would care for you.”

Finduilas couldn’t resist. She fell into his arms again, and this time he hugged her back. He was dirty and travel-worn, smelling of sweat and wet wool, but Finduilas couldn’t care less. He was here, and he was hers, and everything would be alright.

Then she noticed that Neniel was staring at Túrin too. Her eyes had grown large, and her cheeks blushed pink, making her look more alive than ever.

"Túrin," she murmured.

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Chapter End Notes

I hope you like my fix-it version of this tale so far. :)

Ulmo intervened against orcs in a similar way once before, in the river Sirion. That time it led to the survival of Húrin and his brother Huor. I figured that IF canon was different, this might have been a likely scenario.