Part 04: Ye Shall Render Blood by Eilinel's Ghost

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Ye Shall Render Blood | Part 04 of the Atandil Series

This one is a bit of a divergence and showed up in the series sort of by accident, but it goes hand in hand with Part 5 that will be coming soon (within the week hopefully) and that one will be more of the Usual Programming.

Content Warnings
- CW death
- CW violence

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455th YEAR OF THE SUN, WINTER

The Fen of Serech

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He saw the blade pass through him, dark iron, stained darker with blood. His own blood.

He was falling.

The fen caught him, soft in its embrace, and the mud sucked at his wrists, his arms, as he flung them outward to break his collapse. It pulled him under. Finrod clawed at the matted weeds, dragging himself onto a solid patch and gasping for air as the battle reeled about him. Only shallow breaths, he learned quickly, the ribs were broken through and the wound in his side throbbed like fire.

He had been rash.

No, that was too generous. He had been a fool.

What madness was upon him to think in his urgency that he could outrun what had already been foreseen? He drove the host forward these past days in a frenzy of haste, focused only upon reaching Dorthonion before the fires left the approach impassable.

Angamaitë! Aikanáro!

Desperately his heart cried out to them still, though he knew full well they were gone now beyond his reach. He felt the gasp and flight of Angrod’s spirit as the host forded the Lithir more than a day past, then Aikanáro’s with a roar even as his own company was surrounded here in the wetlands.

Orodreth had been right. That was a bitter thought.

The host reached Tol Sirion as night fell, spent from the haste of their forced march. Finrod would have pressed on at once, but he could not deny their pressing need for rest, so instead he held back at the fortifications and set out at first light, taking but a quarter of the host to venture northward and determine whether the pass to Rivil’s Well could yet be forced. Orodreth argued fiercely against it. The hills had long since burned away, his father was dead, Aikanáro hemmed in between the ruins of Ladros and the fires of the highlands. “It is too late, uncle,” he had insisted. “Gorthaur led that assault and none could hold against him—the eastern side has been cut off for days. Better to relinquish the highlands than risk those who could instead hold the vale and stem this tide.”

“And Aikanáro? The remnants of Ladros?”

“What remnants? Dorthonion is naught but ash. Whatever corpses are left, you cannot reach them.”

And he had not. They were ambushed within miles of the pass and driven back into the fens, surrounded and outnumbered. They had held off the onslaught for hours without end, but by nightfall too many of his company were cut down and the line began to break. One by one they fell about him until only a handful remained. Gelmir alone endured of his guard and they had fought back to back as the sea of foes pressed an ever deeper wedge between their company and the remainder of the host.

A sudden onrush of smoke, noxious and fell, and Gelmir had stumbled from his side in the confusion. Finrod’s eyes burned in the haze and tears streamed down his face as his body tried to clear his sight. He could hear the battle all about him, but saw no further than the ends of his arms. “Gelmir!” he had cried into the choking mist. “Calano! Macildil!”

He heard their voices calling back, scattered and distant. Gelmir’s had been the least muted, he must yet be near. Finrod moved swiftly to his right, calling out for the other again as he tried to gauge his path.

The sense of danger had been immediate. He swung around, sword raised, but his speed was hindered by the shifting mud and a heavy mace crashed into his ribs. He felt them give way beneath the blow as he staggered to the side.

And that was when he saw the blade emerge from his own flesh and collapsed into the stagnant pool.

Face-down in the mud, he fumbled again for his sword in the water. His hand nicked against the blade, found the hilt. That was something, at least.

He grasped the weapon and thought of the deaths preceding him—his grandfather, alone barring the way against Darkness so the household could flee; his uncle, holding Balrogs at bay until his own fire consumed him at last; Arakáno, hurling himself headlong into the ambush to buy time for their lines to form. His own brothers, who had held the burning hills far longer than any thought possible.

And now he would perish here, a rat in a trap, choked in ankle deep water.

For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death’s shadow. A fitting end, Finrod thought bitterly as he watched his own blood flow out, mingled in the icy streams of water. He was never a warrior. But that same sight kindled his pride anew and the valor of his people rose hot in his veins. It was blood of the house of Finwë. And he was not yet felled.

Stand. He clutched at the gaping wound with one hand and pushed up with the other. Fight. With all his will, he staggered a few steps forward, he cut down the Orc in his path.

A cry tore through the air only a short distance from him, muffled by the smoke, then there was a fumbling. A long scream of anguish.

“Gelmir!” He could not see him in the fray. He could see nothing but the burning fumes, the specter of movements within it. “Gelmir!” He shouted over the din, but the only reply was another Orc looming out from the haze before him, mace raised and laughing, blood upon his fingers. It was a brief fight. Finrod’s body moved without thought, the motions executed in reflex, and the Orc lay felled at his feet. He stumbled a few more steps, and then the earth reared up toward him and the water seemed to wrap itself about his vision like a cloak.

Too much blood, he thought fleetingly, and then felt his body crumple into the fetid reeds.

This was death, then.

Finrod drew in a ragged breath, choking on the reek. The rotting stench of the water. The metallic stench of blood. The dry, bitter stench of the burning hills beyond, carrying away his brothers within their smoke. In that moment he envied for the first time the mortality of Men. He coveted a death that came upon you softly, death that whispered and held out a hand and let you slip into his arms in sleep. Death that passed his fingers over your eyes and left a visage in peace. Balan’s death.

May peace ever lie down beside me
May you in wisdom’s arm’s find me
May valor not be denied me
And mercy’s temperance guide me

The memory of Balan’s voice rose vividly as though the song was new-sung beside him, rough and earthen and calming the tumult of his spirit, as ever it had. A death of peace may not be granted his kind, but he resolved that he would face his own as Balan had accepted his. In that, at least, death could meet them together. Finrod’s eyes settled on a trampled knot of sedges and he inched his arm over the ground till his fingers pulled loose a cluster of seeds. He drew these to his lips and set three upon his tongue, then his head dropped back into the mud and his gaze drifted up to rest on the thick clouds overhead.

There was something comforting in the knowledge that he and Aikanáro would enter Námo’s halls together. Arm in arm, pain alongside of pain, facing collectively what might daunt each alone. He was no longer afraid and a smile eased over his face even as the sounds of battle raged about him. He would rest at last.

Then he felt the Orc captain’s eye settle on him, he heard the laughter, the approaching step. The jangle of a chain. Eru, let it be death, let it be death.

A boot kicked his spine and another hot wave of blood oozed from his side. “Alive,” the voice growled from above him. “Put out his eyes and bind him with the others.” Nausea racked his body as he understood then what the earlier screams had signified and he fumbled uselessly for a weapon among the reeds.

And then through the darkness he heard it, sounding from the hills as though from his own delirious longing: the deep call of ox horns echoing over the marshes, the voices of Atani raised and shouting above the din, the war cry of the House of Bëor.

”Dweré ah sunda!” He heard the Taliska roar from his own throat as well. His hand found a knife lying where one of his guards had fallen and he grasped the hilt in renewed vigor, slicing through the sinews of the leg before him. The Orc fell with a shriek and he drove the blade into the skull, feeling the sickening crunch of bone as it passed through, the dizzying stab of kinship. He rolled to the side, reeling again from the lost blood, the earth rising and falling about him like the ocean’s waves. Another Orc fell beside him, run through with an Atani spear.

“Aran!”

It was Barahir’s voice.

“Aran nín!”

Barahir, who was the son of Bregor, who was the son of Boromir, who was the son of Boron, who was the son of Baran, who was the son of—“

“Nóm!” Barahir called him by name when he did not respond and caught him by the shoulders.  “Do you hear me, Aran? Nóm!”

The affectionate name broke through the stupor and Finrod looked up to meet his eye. “Yonya…” he whispered and a cracked smile turned his lips. His son. What was blood in the end? In his soul he felt the sure knowledge—they were each of them his sons. Every scion of Balan, his own, beloved and beautiful. His children unbegotten.

“Nóm, keep your eyes on mine. Stay awake. Nóm, stay with me.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am with you.” And then the world fell away into darkness.

❈ ❈ ❈

Finrod woke beneath a pine. At first he stared up at the gaunt branches and thought himself on a journey with his father, wandering as they would for days on end through the forests of Valinórë. Something was not right in that, this tree was sickly, the needles sparse. And there was the murmur of voices about him, too many voices. Rough, mortal voices.

Of course, he was beside Thalos. There were pine thickets along the feet of the Ered Luin. He must have slept overlate if so many were moving about before him. Balan would tease him for it. He would tell him he was growing more Mannish by the day, that he would have a beard within the month if he was not careful. Finrod grinned as he thought up rejoinders and pushed up from the ground.

He fell back at once with a sharp gasp as burning pain shot through his side. The return of memory that followed was hardly less searing. All the world had changed since he last wandered with Arafinwë through the spruce groves of Aman. A century had gone since the earth turned Balan to soil and tree and flower—a hundred years to the day, he realized with a sinking grief, or at least it had been on the morning he set out from Tol Sirion.

The recollection of what had passed between that morning and this settled over him with another wave of anguish. It was well past dawn, he realized, despite the canopy of smoke and fumes. They must have carried him through the night, fighting their way free of the fens with his body a burden in their midst.

“Aran nín?” Barahir’s voice was gentle beside him and a hand reached out to rest on his shoulder. “Aran, can you drink?”

Finrod nodded and a water skin was placed against his lips. Barahir’s hand slipped under his head, tangling in the dried blood and grime, and lifted it, guiding him to the drink as tenderly as though he was a child.

“If you were one of us, I would give you something stronger to dull the pain,” Barahir said as he helped him to another drink and saw the sweat stand out on his forehead, “but I’ve no knowledge of how to tend your kind. Such would have slain us,” he gestured at the mangled side, “so I know not what might cause further harm or whether it would even be of help.”

“Give it to me,” Finrod said hoarsely with a nod of assurance, then took a deep draft from the flask Barahir held out to him. He hissed sharply as the liquor passed along his throat, parched from his hours in the burning fen, then took another mouthful and tried again to push himself up from the ground. “Nay, help me sit,” he said as the other tried to restrain him. “I need to see the world upright to still its whirling.”

“As you will.” Barahir glanced dubiously at the wound once again, then slid his arm under the king’s shoulders and helped shift him up by degrees until he could lean against the tree. “Have a care! You’ll set the blood flowing again.”

A muffled groan escaped Finrod’s lips and he gripped the flesh together as blood oozed once more through his fingers, his eyes closed against the pain. “You did warn me.”

“Your own folk are nearly here.” Barahir’s concern was palpable. “They will know what to do?”

“My folk?” This was hope unlooked for and his eyes opened, focusing on Barahir’s in a desperate plea. “Others survived, then?”

“Not from your company, lord,” he said gently and watched the despair crack lines across other’s features. “Forgive me. Any others were slain or taken ere we reached the battle. We found none but you—and even that was a bitter struggle. Their numbers were too great, we had not the strength to give chase.” He was quiet for a moment, allowing the king time to accept the news. “But the remainder of your host was driven back beyond the Rivil after you were sundered from them. I sent two men during the night to reach them and we have sighted their approach with a company of your people. They will be able to bear you back to Tol Sirion.”

“And thou?”

“We return to Dorthonion. Our number is small enough that we may yet find our way unhindered. We know many lesser trod paths through the hills to reach our aim.”

“That is a perilous path nonetheless. I caution thee now with the same counsel I scorned: the highlands have fallen. Go by thy hidden paths and gather what is left of thy people, then flee what is already lost. Bring them to Nargothrond, if thou wilt heed my advice. We’ve room and provision for many—for this very eventuality was it built. Or come at least to Minas Tirith where there are defenses to preserve thy folk.”

“Vandatar!” Barahir’s men had returned with the detachment from the Nargothrondrim host and they hastened across the clearing, Gildor sprinting ahead of them. He dropped to the ground beside Finrod and caught his hand in his own. “I thought thee dead until the messengers came.” His voice was held in strict composure now, but Finrod saw the dread lurking at the edges of his eyes, a lingering hint of the frightened child who cowered against him on the Helcaraxë.

“I live,” he said and returned the pressure to Gildor’s hand with a wan smile.

Two others knelt beside them and set to work inspecting the damage and tending what they could in the open woodland. Barahir’s men had gathered into a rough formation and stood ready at the edge of the meadow. They had tarried only on account of him, Finrod perceived, and now their eyes drifted impatiently toward the highlands. Would that the blade had ended him, he thought in uncharacteristic despondency, rather than leaving him a cause for further sacrifice. How many of Barahir’s folk had fallen cutting him out of that hell? How many of his own? He felt himself breaking apart as he thought upon it, shreds of himself feathering off like ash. How many dead at Alqualondë? How many dead that he led upon the ice? How many? And those that endure shall grow wear of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race. O Manwë, Varda, and all the holy, why had the blade not ended him?

“I take my leave, lord, now that I have seen you safely to your own people’s care.” Barahir bowed as he spoke, crossing hand and spear in the traditional salute. “May goodness keep you, aran nín, and mercy preserve you.”

“Wait.” Finrod shook free from his despair and called him back as he turned away. He  drew a ring from his finger, holding it up toward Barahir in his open hand. “An oath once sworn to me in blood, returned in blood now to thee. Take this in token of my vow.” The twined serpents lay coiled upon his stained palm, their eyes shining up through the gloom. “Friendship thy people have ever had of me, but bound shalt thou have it now in troth. My aid is thine in every need, whether of thee or thy kin—if ever thou shalt call upon me, I shall answer.”

“Lord.” Barahir knelt beside him to take the ring from the outstretched hand and placed it upon his own, drenched yet with the other’s blood. “I hear thee in honor.”

“I but bind in word what has ever been true in heart.” He paused for air as his breathing caught in pain. “Thou goest now against my council, but nevertheless with the love that ever I have born for all thy house. My oath is thine, Barahir, should thou ever find need of it. Do not forget it, and tarry not when the need is nigh. For truly I fear thy need shall be great.” Finrod reached out to grip the other’s arm. “My friend, go not forth. Death only awaits thee there.”

“Death is our lot, lord, meet us where it may.” Then Barahir’s voice faltered and he added in a softer tone, “And, lord, I have not yet found my son. Nor have I word of my wife since I left her fighting at his side. No shelter shall I seek from king or cavern till I know their fate.”

“Then go with my blessing as well.” Finrod released him and held up a hand in benediction. “And may the Valar guide thy feet and illumine the path of thy search.” Then he paused, feeling once again the sinking certainty that this too would be a final parting, and his voice broke as he added in the Atani fashion, “May goodness keep thee, Barahir, Balanion, mellon nín, and mercy preserve thee.”

 

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Chapter End Notes

TRANSLATIONS
Q = Quenya, S = Sindarin
- Aran: [S] king
- Aran nín: [S] my king
- Yonya: [Q] my son
- Vandatar: [Q] roughly “oath-father,” an approximation for “foster-father,” combining (oath, pledge, solemn promise) and atar (father).
- Balanion: [S] Balan’s son

- Dweré ah sunda is an invented phrase meaning “valor and truth”, loosely modeled after the Gothic language (Tolkien Estate publish the existing Taliska grammar and syntax challenge.)