The Line of Kings by Michiru

Dagor Bragollach

***Violent content -- moderate

The beginning of the end.

First Age Year 455

The Oath of Barahir

They had done what they could to reach Aegnor, cutting themselves off from all reinforcement. The Elf Lord was fatally wounded, the broken haft of a spear still jutting from his crumpled armor. They dared not remove it, and Barahir blinked sweat from his eyes as he parried another blow. Above them, the great pines shrieked as the fire spread through them as though they were tinder. At last he understood why the princes had viewed Dorthonion's drying climate with trepidation.

"Go," Aegnor murmured, shoving Beren's clumsy ministrations away and laboring to his feet. His face was almost dreamy, save for the black rage burning in his eyes. "Protect my brother." Barahir saw death in the gaze of the deathless, and nodded.

"I swear it," he promised. The last survivors of the House of Bëor fled westward as Aegnor made his last stand, and perished in a rain of fire.

o

The Fall of Dorthonion

The land itself writhed under Morgoth's assault, hindering them as they struggled, racing their foes to the western valleys, where Angrod's people dwelt. For every league they gained, they lost a man, until finally Barahir no longer knew who remained in his company.

Smoke in the air made it hard to distinguish friend from enemy, the ash falling around their heads was a sick parody of Dorthonion's absent winter snow. He turned a stumble into a last-minute leap, clearing the trampled remains of a fence and realizing, with a jolt, that they had reached the main settlement.

Like his brother, Angrod stood alone, his two swords flashing defiance against both the Balrogs from the north and the spiders from the south. Even as they rushed to his side, Barahir saw one of Ungoliant's brood swipe at the Noldorin prince, catching him across the face with a spiny leg.

Angrod fell.

o

Last Rites

He bore Angrod with them as they fled, the sodden mess of Angrod's eyes running down his face, down Barahir's neck. The weight of his broken promise was heavier than the prince; Barahir dreaded bearing news to Nómin that both his brothers had fallen.

They claimed a high ground, above the tree line and free of the choking fires. A pool still glittered nearby, as though death did not run rampant below. Barahir laid Angrod down, smoothed golden hair back from his face.

"You've been gravely wounded, my lord."

"I'm dying," Angrod rasped. About his eyes his veins pulsed black, the spider-poison spreading. "Read this," he ordered weakly, proffering a scrap of parchment. It was barely legible, looked to have been torn from a longer letter.

"…pleased to inform you of the imminent birth of your grandson—" Barahir looked up, heart-broken all over again. Angrod had already gone still.

o

The Fen of Serech

The body they left at the bottom of the pool, weighted down as best they could manage, trusting Ulmo's power to keep it from spiders and any other foul creatures. Then Barahir began leading his people to safety. The parchment he kept tucked in his tunic, as Angrod had kept it. He would entrust it and their people to Beren, then return to Dorthonion, and defend it to his last breath, as his lords had done.

They crested the last, low hill before Dorthonion gave way to the Pass of Sirion, and came upon carnage in the stinking fen below. From far off, Barahir recognized the voice of Nómin, calling for aid that was not forth-coming, cut off as he was from his men.

"By the gods, we'll not be late again!" he roared, hearing the answering cry of his men behind him as he plunged down into the marsh.

Chapter End Notes

Author's Note: These were particularly difficult to write, even with the concession of a 150 word limit instead of a 100 word limit (making this assembly 6 drabbles long, not including the section titles, even though there are only four parts).

Nóm/Nómin was the name given to Finrod by Bëor.

If anyone is wondering, Angaráto is indeed speaking Quenya in Last Rites. The letter, however, is in Sindarin, which is also the language Barahir is speaking.

"By the gods…" throughout Tolkien's mythopoeia, mortal Men are portrayed as thinking of the Valar as gods. While the Edain are supposed to be above this, being educated by the Eldar, I feel that Barahir's had a sufficiently bad day to slip into such a mind frame, if it isn't his normal one.

Keep an eye out for The Fall of Minas Tirith, a separate, chaptered story dealing Orodreth's part in the Dagor Bragollach. I should hopefully be posting the first chapter sometime this week (or maybe this weekend. Deadline week at work is crazy).