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actual-bill-potts · 1 year

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Thanks @eilinelsghost for enabling me

Balan held on. By his fingernails, somehow, and his teeth if necessary. It was odd, because he was fairly sure most of his teeth had been gone by the time he died, but here they were back, and if they’d help him hold on then by all the gods he’d use them.

You must go, a hooded and cloaked figure had said when he first arrived. You do not belong here. Námo, he had realized with cold shock, the Doomsman of the Valar. He who had cursed Finrod.

Bright rage had flowed through his body then (so frail just a moment ago, and the juxtaposition between memory and feeling near made him fall over before mastering himself). "I will not leave until I see Nóm again."

Who? The tolling voice of Námo sounded almost puzzled, for a moment. Then the air seemed to clear. Oh. Him.

"Yes," Balan spat, "he whom you doomed."

He did that himself, Námo said, voice falling wearily like the pounding of great stones upon the earth.

Balan decided not to argue the point. "I won’t leave," he said. "I promised."

The feeling of a sigh seemed to manifest in the air around him. And what of your first wife, who has gone beyond the veil of Arda?

A pang. Esrid. To see her again, after all this time -

But Finrod had wept. Finrod had begged him not to leave, to stay for but another hour, another minute -

And Balan had left him.

"Esrid is gone indeed, beyond the world," he said, "but Nóm lives still. I will not leave him."

You must, said Námo - but was there hesitation in his voice?

There was.

Balan smiled to himself. "I will not leave," he said. "You do not command my fate. You cannot force me."

Námo inclined his great head. It will hurt, he warned. My halls are not made for mortals.

"I don’t care," Balan said.

The feeling of weariness, of great age, in the air intensified. Very well, Námo said, but neither can I help you.

"I don’t care," Balan had said again; but his heart misgave him. Finrod might live for a thousand years more. A thousand years, alone in the dark. He could not do it. He was not made for it.

Well, might as well try anyway, he told himself, and anyway I made a promise.

It was cold and dark for a long time then, and he was alone. He wandered in dreams, and tried to cling to happy memories: Baran and Belen, laid in his arms. Baran climbing a tree, eyes alight with happiness; Belen sat by the fire, eyes shining and far away.

Balan could see, as if from very far away, the shining motion of spirits through and out of Mandos. He wondered absently if anyone he knew was in that great procession; then decided it was not worth the risk to ask, lest he be swept up with them.

One day (night? He was sitting in an endless dusk) his eldest son approached, spirit blazing as brightly as it ever had within his body. From far away he appeared old and worn, older than Balan had ever seen: but as he approached the years seemed to fall away, until he was again the study youth of twenty-two summers he had been when Balan departed for Nargothrond.

"Father!" he exclaimed, rushing to fling his arms around Balan; and Balan found to his surprise that he was solid enough to be embraced. "Father, it is so good to see you!"

"And it is good to see you," Balan returned, laughing and weeping at once, "my eldest, pride of my heart!"

"What are you doing here?" Baran asked when the embrace ended. "We are all going that way," and he pointed to the endless procession.

"I am waiting," Balan said.

"Oh," Baran said. His face fell. "Father, will you not come with me? I have missed you."

Balan felt as if he were being torn in two; but he had made a promise. He pulled his son close to him again.

"I must wait," he said gently. "I promised. Carry my greetings to your mother, will you? I love you, Baran."

"I will wait with you," Baran offered - but reluctantly.

Balan shook his head. "You have made no vows. My son - O my son! I am so proud of you!" He found himself weeping again. He had not remembered he could weep.

Baran’s tears were wetting his shoulder; but at last his son pulled away. "I must go," Baran said reluctantly.

"I know you must," Balan said. "Be happy, my son. Go and find light."

Baran smiled. "I will!" he said, for he was strong, and merry of heart, and after all very wise.

"Wait -" Balan said, as Baran turned away. "What news of Nóm?"

Baran turned back, briefly. "He visits us often, and plays with the children. But he grieves."

With that he was gone, and Balan was left blinking in the endless dark.

There were more, after him. Belen, soon enough; then his grandchildren, Boron and Baranor and Beldir, grown into old men whose years fell off them as they stepped into Mandos, and who shed their bodies as they stepped out of it. They recognized him, always; and he loved them, always.

"I will stay with you," offered Belen, and Belemir, and Bereg. Their high quick courage swept Balan with pride every time. His children surpassed him at every turn.

Always he shook his head. The years blurred together.

"What news of Nóm?" he asked Belegor, and Bregor, and Gilwen.

Nóm was helping rebuild their great hall, which had been destroyed in a fire that past summer; Nóm was being taught woodworking, and was comically bad at it; Nóm was visiting less, for there was trouble in the North.

He grieves for thee, they said. He grieves for thee. He grieves for thee.

The blink of an eye passed - or was it years? - and a man with Baran’s nose stumbled into view. He was bleeding badly, looking around in shock.

He - wasn’t old.

No.

As the man - Balan guessed he was one of Bregor’s children - approached, his wounds seemed to close, and he stood up straighter. Still he seemed weary and sad.

"Father?" he whispered as he passed by.

"Not your father, nor yet his father," Balan said, who after all had lived with Elves for many a year and furthermore had nothing to do in the endless dusk save amuse himself with riddles.

The man’s eyes widened. "Bëor?"

"Tis I," Balan said, "and what is your name, son?"

"I am - Barahir," the man said, and Balan felt a lurch in his stomach. But Barahir was so young! The youngest of Bregor’s children!

"There was - fire," said Barahir, seeing his look, "fire and death; and our lands are gone. My son -" he broke off. He began to weep.

Balan drew him close. "I am sorry," he breathed, "so sorry. You will see him again."

"I hope he does not suffer too much," Barahir whispered. "O Emeldir! Say not that she too has died in pain!"

"I have not met Emeldir," said Balan, "so she is not dead."

"Little comfort that is, in these times," Barahir said grimly; but his face lightened. "She led our people to safety. She is stronger than I. She will survive."

He began to move away, towards the ever-moving column of light that Balan refused to join; then he stopped as Balan said urgently, "Wait! Is Nóm - has he -"

"Nóm lives," said Barahir. "I saved his life, in fact; and he swore to me a life-debt in return."

Balan stood stunned. A life-debt? Why? They were all of them sworn to protect Nóm, as he was to protect them. Why would he…?

Barahir laughed at his expression. "That’s what I said!" he exclaimed. "But he insisted. I didn’t want to refuse. He was very badly injured. It will all come to nothing, anyway," he added wryly. "The ring he gave me is doubtless in some Orc trophy-hoard by now. More’s the pity. It was beautiful."

There was only one ring Balan had ever seen Finrod wear. "He gave you the ring of his father?" he demanded.

Barahir nodded. "He has not forgotten you," he said quietly. "I did not expect to see you here; but I am glad of it, for there are dark times coming. But my part in the story is done!" he added. "I go to await my wife and son, and see my father. I wish you joy," he added as he left.

In the retreating light of Barahir’s spirit, Balan reeled. He could near picture the scene: Finrod, wounded and tired - his heart bled to think of it - giving Barahir his father’s ring. Of course Finrod would do something foolish like that, he thought fondly, the second one of us did him the slightest favor.

He longed to see Nóm; but he hoped Finrod would survive Morgoth’s onslaught. He did not deserve to die in pain.

Balan settled himself in to wait again. He had mastered waiting by now. He laid his spirit down, gently, and closed the eyes he did not have. Let the stars he could not see wheel behind above his head; felt the soft hand of memory close in his own. There was peace in it, after all this time. But he worried. Was Nóm all right?

Suddenly behind him there came an animal cry, guttural and hoarse. Balan sat up so fast his head - which was more metaphorical than physical - spun. He whipped around as the cry came again and saw a body.

That was…not good. Wasn’t Námo supposed to take care of these things? Not let people suffer?

Balan waited a moment; but the Doomsman did not appear. The Elf - if Elf he was - was now breathing raggedly. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. When Námo still made no appearance, he sighed and approached. Perhaps he could offer comfort, before Námo came from wherever he was hiding and swept this one off to be healed.

The Elf was naked, and so thin and wasted that Balan could count every one of his ribs. His hair fell to his knees, but was so tangled and matted its color could not be seen. He was covered in blood: so much blood, Balan had never seen so much blood on a person!

He knelt beside the Elf and reached out, carefully, to touch his shoulder. "My friend," he said gently, feeling an odd stirring of familiarity and foreboding as he said the words, "can I help?"

A sharp intake of breath: and Balan knew already what he would see as the Elf forced his ruined body to turn and face him. Clear grey eyes opened wide, and Balan looked into the face of Finrod Felagund for the first time in a hundred years.

"Nóm?" he whispered, torn between furious joy and deep heartsickness. "Nóm, what happened?"

"Balan?" Finrod rasped. His eyes were filled with pain and terror. One of them was swollen nearly shut, and the left side of his face tilted oddly: something was broken in his face. "Balan, how came you here?"

"How came I - I died!" Balan said, exasperated. "And you, foolish Elf, were supposed to live! What is wrong?" He did not know what to do. He had nothing with which to bind wounds, and little skill in healing. The sight of Finrod in such pain smote his heart.

But as he continued speaking, Finrod sat up slowly and reached out a hand. It progressed hesitatingly towards Balan, inch by shaking inch; and as it extended the twisted fingers straightened, the bloodied wrist became whole, until the hand that cupped Balan’s cheek was as warm and solid as it had once been in Nargothrond.

"Bëor?" Finrod whispered. "Beyond hope I have passed - is this joy truly mine?"

"I waited for you," Balan said. "I said I wouldn’t leave you. I promised."

A sob; and suddenly Finrod was in Balan’s arms, shining and whole and weeping as if his heart would break.

#finrod #Balan #otp: and he did not return again to estolad #silm fic #my writing #finrod/bëor #belen #baran #leithian #sorta #by proxy #the Silmarillion

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that-angry-noldo · 4 months

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Hmm for the blorbo doodles....I will be on brand and drop Finrod and Bëor into the suggestion box. Just some silly shenanigans these two dorks pls?

them!! frankie atandil twilight crossover when

#finrod #bëor #finrod/bëor #noldo draws #noldo answers

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searchingforserendipity25 · 10 months

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7 or 27 for the ship and numbers game. whichever you prefer. finrod/beor?

Hi nonnie! Thank you <3 It ended up being a bit of both prompts tbh!

There was something wrong, apparently. Not quite right yet.

There had been something not quite right with all the other attempts, too. Bëor was starting to suspect the morning birds would have competition in their songs, if nothing was done to cease the racket.

The fairest of elves, sitting absorbed in glorious music at his side, and Bëor longed for his silence! His sons were right - he had become spoiled. There were indeed few things Bëor liked best than those times when Nóm sang, played, and made music beside him.

But honestly. Love was sweet, but so was sleep.

Bëor clutched the nearest pillow and briefly considered using it as ammunition. He could not bear to, in the end; but he was perhaps less obvious about hiding his face in it than he had been some hours ago.

It won him nothing. The music remained, notes following on one another like summer rain. Bëor came to the conclusion that severe measures had to be taken. He wrestled with the blankets, threw aside the pillow, and leaned down the side of the bier.

Nóm’s lashes brushed his cheeks when he lowered them. Bëor could feel it. He leant into the kiss, the first startled breath turning into a sweet sigh, grasping Bëor to steady him and press near.

His eyes shone brighter than starlight. Truly it was very unfair that he should be so beautiful at such a terrible hour.

‘I did not think it was so fine a tune as to deserve such a gift,’ Nóm said. ‘Not yet!’

'Nóm,' Bëor said, very patiently. 'Best beloved. Sweet lord. The music is very fine. Choose whichever chords you like best, and it shall remain lovely.

Nóm peered at him. The warmth of the room was in his cheeks, and the same flush that rose in them since the first time Bëor first interrupted them with a kiss - years ago. Another song; but the kisses mingled into one another joyfully even now.

'But?'

'But do not say Not yet again; for I am a Not yet away from going to sleep in the quiet of the caves. Tis very late.'

The surprise came first, and then the chagrin. Bëor could see it - how strange, that time should be as difficult a translation between them as any complicated dialect! Worse, in many ways. Nóm looked at his own hands on the string with some surprise, considered the ink smudging his papers and his fingers, and Bëor’s shape curled under the blankets.

It was very charming, the way a flush rose on his cheeks. Bëor could forgive a great deal of less pleasant noise, for that.

‘My apologies! I did not pay you the mind I should, dear one. Have I been keeping you from your rest? I do not wish to keep your spirits up when you do not wish it.’

‘You do not,” Bëor assured him. He rubbed a slow hand on his face, striving to be sensible in speech. He was slow, and warm, and really quite tired; and not interested in the repetition of the old conversation, interesting and vital as it was. ‘I wish it; but I would wish it much better tomorrow.’

Personally, Bëor found Nóm’s new composition too uplifting to be restful, and the process of its making too full of discordant sound, the sharp and overly bright music of the Eldar, that pierced the ear and seeped into the listening mind.

That he could not complain of. He had lost none of the awe and wonder, or the sweeping curiosity Nóm’s enchantments first arose in him. He was not immune to his singing; but it had become familiar to him, for all its strangeness, as dear and comforting as his wife’s burr had been, or his sons’ laughter.

He could not wish any cheer away from him, and so said nothing; but in his heart Nóm’s surprise stung, and the more for he knew it was nothing to do with intended harm, or blame.

They occupied the world quite differently. Bëor felt it more keenly with every winter that left its memory of frost in his hair and beard, every morning when the ungainly clucking of his limbs waking to their sockets drew sleep-muddled, alarmed glances from Nóm.

Gods. Only yesterday, it seemed, he had happily spent the night awake, in a bed of moss and ferns or smooth elvish linens and thick furs, long hours spreading thick and golden as honey. Bëor had been only Balan, then, and not even a young man; but still it felt the memory with a growing remove, dampened by age, and banal things, and the weariness.

Nóm felt it. It settled on his unmarked face like a shadow. Bëor had to kiss the creaseless line of his cheeks to retrieve him from it until Nóm smiled at him. A man could die worthily, for the strange and grateful curl of his mouth, the force of his mind moving from shadow to light.

'Come to bed with me,' Bëor said, as if he were the enchanter between them; and Nóm, blessedly, set aside the lyre on the stand and leant down beside him without further hesitation.

His body under the covers was startlingly warm as ever, long and willowy, swift to cleave to Bëor’s side. Their hair mingled together upon the pillows, gold and dark and silver. He called out a last word, a tuneful cantrip, and the flames in the hearth dipped to a languid darkness.

‘Dear Bëor,’ he whispered fondly. 'How patient you are. Will you truly listen to the song tomorrow? I wish to know if you think your people will like it.'

Bëor sighed. ‘I will. Hush.’

‘I am hushing! I only meant to say I love you dearly.’

Bëor pressed his smile against Nóm’s cheek. Nothing sweeter in the world than to sleep in the arms of his beloved. He kissed Nóm's brow, closed his eyes, and fell into a dream of summer rain singing with the rustling of many high trees.

#finrod #bëor #finrod/bëor #thank you!!#my fics

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eilinelsghost · 10 months

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Part 12: Children of the Sun

Nay, even to think of him as Nóm within these vaulted passages felt somehow disjointed and strange. Nóm was the familiar companion of woods and fields—somber and fay, merry and quiet—a comfortable spirit who sat smiling beside Balan’s hearth. Here he was a formidable presence. Balan was breathless as he watched him from the corner of his eye. He knew not even how to name him.

Finrod and Bëor arrive in Nargothrond and navigate what this new context means for each of them.

#finrod #bëor #the silmarillion #nargothrond #finrod/bëor #gildor #edrahil #my fic #atandil #tolkien fanfic #silmarillion fanfiction

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melestasflight · 9 months

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Naming my cat Finrod was honestly one of my best life decisions. Mainly because it leads to quite peculiar statements on a daily basis:

Finrod is hiding in the closet again. I spent two hours cuddling with Finrod instead of doing work. No regrets. Finrod is shy at first, but just let him observe you for a while, he’ll come on his own, and then you’ll never be rid of him. Finrod Felagund, Lord of Nargothrond, stop chewing that plant! me: I've given Finrod 3 different types of food today, and he licks each one a little, walks away, and looks at me like he's starving to death. friend: You should just let him be. me: I can't. I have a compulsion to please him. Appalled, after finding a bloodied pile of fur on my porch: Omg, Fin, what is this?! Baby, thank you for the gift, but… he slow-blinks, rubs himself against my leg, and there’s nothing I can do about it

#finrod #finrod felagund #cat #cats of arda #silmarillion #his brother Bëor is a story of his own

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cheesy-cryptid · 2 years

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Finrod and Beor inspired by True Thomas by Charles Vess

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lycheesodas · 1 year

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My gift for this year’s @officialtolkiensecretsanta!

Finrod and his bestie Bëor chatting around a cozy campfire on one of their adventures together 💛🏕 Cuz they must’ve gone on lots of trips together! After all these years Bëor still wonders how Finrod is not freezing to death in this weather 😅 I tried a more simple, storybook-like style this time :3

The recipient of this gift will be revealed on the 24th!

#silmarillion #tolkien #finrod #bëor the old #tss2022 #hehe i hope they will like it :3c #lycheedraws

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serregon · 7 months

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Finrod/Bëor

#finrod #bëor #balanom

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ettelenethelien · 16 hours

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I feel like Finrod's love for the secondborn is... not unconnected with him being the eldest of four siblings

#would he have still wholesale 'adopted' the house of Bëor otherwise? probably!#but it was a factor #my post #Finrod #tolkien #Silmarillion #silm

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vorbarrsultana · 1 year

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do you ever think how the faithful, the elendili, the elf-friends were predominantly descendants of bëorians, the vassals of finrod the faithful, the edennil, the friend-of-men? because i do.

#they kept his ring and they kept his hope #tolkien #the silmarillion #finrod #edain #numenor #house of bëor

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nynevefromthelake · 8 days

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Not going to be normal about them

#silmarillion #silm #silmarillion fanart #silm art #tolkien #tolkien fanart #sketch #finrod #finrod felagund #beor #beor the old #finrod/bëor #finrod x bëor

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actual-bill-potts · 1 year

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I’ll second that Finrod’s hunting trip with Maedhros and Maglor ficlet ask, if that one resonated at all with you (if it didn’t, please just disregard this haha). I’d be really curious to see what you did with that!

Many thanks to you and @melestasflight for the wonderful prompt! This fic fought me every step of the way, but I'm at least reasonably happy with it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it. I hope you enjoy!!

By the time he reached Himring, Finrod was weary to his bones.

He had set out from Nargothrond to visit Doriath; since being allowed back beyond the threshold of the fenced realm, he had made the journey as often as he could spare the time. He yet had hope that Thingol and his Queen could be softened towards the rest of the Noldor, and in any case his sister and her betrothed dwelt there, and he missed her company and wisdom dearly.

Often Finrod found nothing but peace and joy in the court of Doriath, for despite his grudge against the Noldor Thingol was kind and wise in the ways of the forest, Melian was generous with counsel and teaching, and their daughter Lúthien - now nearly full-grown - loved to hear about Nargothrond, and told him in return many merry stories of her latest escapades.

But this visit had brought dark tidings, and with it concern for his cousins in the North. It seemed that strange creatures had been sighted north and east of Doriath, and that some had managed to make it nearly past the Girdle by some yet-unknown sorcery. None knew what type of beast they were, exactly, only that several of the outermost marchwardens had been found with their throats torn out, and survivors with little memory of the events besides shining green eyes and a sense of dread.

"I recalled all of my guards immediately further within the Girdle, of course," Thingol had said, "for my lady wife assured me that nothing has passed fully through, and that they cannot match her power."

Finrod had made a bow towards Melian, but then said, "my King, would it not be worthwhile to take a company out beyond the Girdle, and hunt down these things? I myself would be more than happy to assist or even to lead the effort, if it would be of use - those beyond your borders may not yet be aware of the threat -"

Thingol’s face had darkened. "You will not lead any of the Sindar into danger!" he had snapped, before softening his tone. "You are valiant, nephew, and I do not fault your softness of heart - but beyond our realm are those who slaughtered my kin and burned the works of their hands. I will not spend the lives of my people in defense of such, when without loss we may remain in safety here. I advise you to do the same, until the danger is passed," he had added; but Finrod had refused as politely as he could, and left that day to ride to Himlad.

He was sick at heart, for if the knowledge of such danger to the Noldor who dwelt by his borders would not move Thingol, what would? He was reminded forcibly of the tensions of his childhood: Vanya in face, Noldo in body, followed by whispers no matter where he went; expected to laugh at Noldor gaudiness in Alqualondë and Telerin flightiness in Tirion. This was the same, but deadly serious, and he did not know how to resolve it; he had not been able to gracefully walk that line even in Aman, and now so many lives rode on his ability to do so here. Even Galadriel was no help, for she had thoroughly repudiated her Fëanorian cousins and advised him to do the same. She had been born late, long after everyone but the twins, and so did not have many memories to set against the terrible sight of blood on sand and distant flame. She had not grown up with Maglor as a merry third in her games; she had not gone running to Maedhros for advice or comfort; she had never seen the expression of mingled joy and desolation upon Finwë’s face when he looked at Celegorm, the child who in face and body was Míriel come to life.

Pursued by such dark thoughts, Finrod had made his way quickly to Himlad, where he found Celegorm and Curufin away at Amon Ereb. He had warned their seneschal of the tidings from Doriath, and without stopping had gone on to Himring. After all, if anyone would have an idea as to the identity of Morgoth’s new creatures, it would be Maedhros.

Now Finrod sat in the great keep of Himring with Maedhros and Maglor - who was, apparently, visiting; so social, the Fëanorians! - weary and heartsick.

"These are ill tidings, Cousin," Maglor said at last, "and we will arrange a hunt for these beasts as soon as we may. The power to nearly breach the Girdle: that is alarming indeed. For now, though, you should rest and eat. I’m sure Maedhros has a room prepared for you already; we sighted you several hours ago - Maedhros?"

Maedhros’ face was set, and his eyes were flaming. "Eyes of emerald, and terrible teeth…I know these beasts of yours, Cousin. They are nauror: gaurhothrim, it would be in Sindarin." He turned to Finrod, and Finrod nearly shrank back, so terrible was his expression. "He - Sauron - took fëar and forced them into the bodies of great starving wolves, with green eyes that screamed without sound. They had the power of untethered spirits, though they were bound to such terrible forms, and they could do - things -" he broke off, breathing heavily.

Maglor’s face was pale, but he asked, "Why then have we not encountered them long since?"

Maedhros laughed. It was not a happy sound. "They died, over and over. Fëar cannot escape Angband; but they revolted against their forms so wholly that the wolf-shapes were rent asunder, and the spirit left in tatters. Hardly useful. Sauron used to -" he pressed his lips together and did not continue.

"Then - these creatures are Eldar," Finrod said faintly.

"Aye. But slaying them will be no evil, if I am right," Maedhros said. "Death is the kindest gift in our power to offer."

He stood. "But my brother was right, earlier," he said, and it seemed that the great flame in his eyes was banked as he turned again to Finrod. The granite lines of his face softened near-imperceptibly. "You are weary, and I have had a room prepared. Go rest. You are welcome to join us in the great hall for dinner, or to send for a meal to your room, whichever seems best to you. I will leave at first light with my brother and a company of warriors. I advise you to delay your departure until our return, but if you must go, tell me and I will arrange for an escort."

"No - I wish to come with you!" Finrod protested. "I would not have my cousins ride into danger without me."

"Thingol’s reaction, should the King of Nargothrond fall in our company, does not bear thinking about," Maedhros said wryly. "It would not be wise."

Finrod set his jaw. "I can help," he said, and found he meant it. The thought of a spirit tethered so cruelly smote his heart. "I have learned much of songcraft from Melian the Maia: songs that can counter the necromancy of Sauron. Perhaps I can - at least ease the passing of these creatures."

"I sing, also," Maglor observed with a trace of humor, "and have faced the fruits of Sauron’s labors before, if in lesser bodies."

"Two voices will be better than one, surely," Finrod countered. He looked at Maedhros. "Please, allow me to accompany you."

Maedhros looked at him for a long moment. "Very well, Cousin," he said at last, "if only because I suspect it would be difficult to prevent you from following. You have the kindest heart of us all, I deem; and perhaps you will be able to do these nauror some mercy. I do not have it in me. We leave at dawn; be ready."

"If you find yourself too weary, do not come!" Maglor added. His sharp face was full of concern. "None will hold it against you."

"Thank you," Finrod said. He smiled at his cousins. "I will not let you down."

The next morning, refreshed in body if troubled in mind, Finrod rose before dawn and was ready in the courtyard when Maedhros and Maglor emerged. They were in light armor and leathers, as he was; and they were followed by a dozen grim-faced Elves.

Maedhros nodded at him; Maglor said, "Good morning!" and even offered a smile.

Finrod smiled back.

"I have procured a horse for you," Maglor said, gesturing to a beautiful roan he held beside the one he rode. "Your own horse needed more than a night of rest."

"Aye," Finrod agreed. "I thank you." He approached and stroked the mare’s nose. She whickered a greeting in return, and nosed his hair. "What is her name?"

"She is called Hirfindë," Maglor replied, laughing a little, "for as a filly she had a terrible habit of chewing on one’s tresses, no matter how tightly plaited."

Finrod looked down in some alarm; but Hirfindë was only sniffing, not chewing. "You have grown out of that habit, I trust?" he said aloud to her in amusement.

She whuffed, as if to say, of course.

There was a general rush of mounting and a flurry of orders from Maedhros; then the company passed through the great gate of Himring, going south and west towards Doriath.

The first day passed without event; Finrod strained all of his senses, but could not detect even a trace of the wrongness that signaled creations of their Enemy. By their expressions of frustration, Maedhros and Maglor did not have better luck. They did not stop that night, picking their way softly by the light of the stars; and by late afternoon of the second day they picked up a trail. The horses became nervous, shying at nothing; and sharp-eyed Maglor spotted the faint outline of a paw in the grass. But even without those signs, Finrod would have known that the creature was near. Despair was in the air. It was so thick he could nearly taste it, and had to set his will to prevent dark dreams from flashing before his waking eyes. I am sorry, he thought sadly to the creature, we will release you, if we can.

But despite the miasma that could be sensed by everyone in the party, the nauro - or nauror, Finrod supposed - proved elusive. The second day and night passed without success. Maedhros rode stone-faced at the head of their party, responding to Maglor’s tentative conversational sallies in monosyllables at best; Finrod tried to engage the rest of their party in conversation, but the other Elves were quiet and withdrawn, and in truth he himself found that talking sapped his energy more than he was accustomed to. The air felt heavy and filthy in his lungs.

But on the third day, they ran the creature to ground.

Maedhros was the first to spot it, of course: as the horizon faded from gold to blue at the start of the day, he sat forward suddenly and said: "There."

Finrod followed his gaze and caught the barest flash of grey bristle between trees.

"It will flee from us, I expect," Maedhros said, signaling for speed, "Its self-preservation instincts will be strong. We must run it to ground."

As he leaned forward to keep pace with his cousins, Finrod wondered for a moment why the creature was not stalking them in turn; then he remembered what Maedhros had said of the nauror in Himring, and felt abruptly sick. Doubtless any spirit successfully tethered in such a way would have had to be - warped, or changed, such that survival of the body became paramount over all other considerations. And indeed it continued to flee from them, until in the early afternoon they ran it to ground.

The first sign of such was Maedhros’ abrupt, "It is nearing the end of its strength; be wary." A short minute after, Finrod could sense it for himself: a thickening of the poison in the air, a sudden sense of weariness that dragged at his limbs. There was a stench, too, so close. Old sweat, rotting meat, traces of filth: the scent of a creature that did not wash itself, and cared for nothing but its own ravenous hunger.

Mingled pity and revulsion welled up in Finrod’s breast; he felt nauseous. By their expressions, Maedhros and Maglor’s chosen hunters were not doing much better. Maedhros and Maglor themselves were twin walls of impassivity, though if Finrod looked closely he could see faint lines of worry about Maglor’s mouth.

Following the smell, the sound of the nauro could be heard: it was crashing through underbrush, growling low in its throat.

As one, the hunters drew their bows. Maglor in the lead dropped back to Finrod, for their role would be as Singers only. Finrod tensed, every nerve alight with anticipation as he scanned the brush for the source of the heaving breathless growl - there! A flash of green in the shadows! - a hail of arrows whistled through the air and the terrible eyes winked out for a moment - then suddenly the Wolf with three arrows in its throat leaped upon Maedhros with a terrible gurgling roar. Elf and nauro rolled together from Maedhros’ horse, landing heavily upon the ground. Maedhros had his dagger out and was slashing grimly at the Wolf’s head with his left arm; his stump was driven into the nauro’s neck, forcing its jaws backwards. The creature was tearing up great clods of earth with its claws in its frenzy to get to Maedhros; the hunters had swords in hand and were approaching with faces set.

"Hold!" Maglor cried suddenly from behind, a clarion that filled Finrod’s ears and slowed everyone for a moment, even the Wolf, "I will Sing! Hold!"

He began a Song of sleep, which dragged Finrod’s eyelids down despite the warning. With an effort he shook himself and saw the archers about him doing the same. Only Maedhros seemed unaffected, grimly holding the Wolf off. Its struggles slowed slightly as Maglor sang, and Maedhros flipped it onto its back and plunged his dagger into its head.

Still it would not die, though it was bleeding from half-a-dozen arrow wounds and should have been killed instantly at Maedhros’ last blow. It whined once, short and sharp, and flung itself again onto Maedhros.

Watching it, Finrod felt sorrow well up in his throat. He thought of the Quendi who had loved their freedom under the stars, and found as their reward servitude without end to a cruel master. A song came unbidden to his lips: a song of traps broken, chains wrenched apart, the empty shackle upon Thangorodrim. After a moment he heard Maglor’s voice join with his own, deeper and more resonant.

The Wolf stood stock-still, panting terribly, its blood dripping to the ground; then as Finrod kept singing with Maglor, it wavered visibly and finally lowered to the ground. It was breathing heavily now, the sounds of an animal wounded to the death. For a moment it seemed to Finrod as if the nauro had two sets of eyes, one green and one silver; the green wolf-eyes were confused and terribly hungry, the silver eyes heavy with sadness and a relief so profound it was almost a pain of its own.

As they dimmed, both terrible eyes met his, and suddenly it seemed to Finrod that the Wolf spoke with a voice of spirit: well-met, master of illusions. Your teeth are sharp and your nails long. I thank you, freedom-bringer; and I am sorry.

Finrod blinked - master of illusions? - and suddenly in the time between one blink and the next he Saw -

eyes that were weary as the Eldar were never weary, looking into his own with love that seemed rooted in the very earth -

laughing beside a fire, with the owner of those selfsame eyes, the giggles and shrieks of children at play in the background: so many children! He had never seen so many even in Aman -

nut-brown locks and a bitter mouth, spitting wisdom angrily -

The same bitter mouth, now framed by white hair, hurling insults with fondness behind them -

Mud in his hair and his ears, caking his clothes, deep spreading pain in his shoulder and wetness following, creeping dread chased away by the low sound of horns that were familiar yet strange -

Dark stone, and chains, and green eyes that glittered feverishly in the dark, and his head resting on wasted legs as the breath whistled strangely from his chest -

Finrod came back to himself with a ragged gasp. He felt a shift in the air, a barrier melting away, and there was only a dead animal on the ground.

He had to go East. He felt it, the call of the vision. It could not be gainsaid, terrible as it was - and the love in those old-young eyes - and so many children -

Maedhros picked himself up off the ground and approached. "My thanks, Cousin!" he said, almost smiling. "Your skill with Song has grown greatly since last I heard you."

Finrod inclined his head and smiled in return. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you," he said warmly. "But I fear I must depart."

"So soon!" Maglor exclaimed. "Why? There may be more of those creatures roaming about, and you must let us treat you to a full supper back at Himring -"

"Maglor makes very free with my hospitality," Maedhros interjected, "but he is quite right about the danger, and about the dinner too. What is the matter?"

"You needn’t worry," Finrod said almost gaily, "But no gaurhoth shall touch me yet. It is not my fate. I must go East," he added more soberly. "I have Seen it."

His cousins continued to protest; but he held firm, and at the last they yielded and sent him on his way with his borrowed mare, all the provisions they could spare, and kind words aplenty. He directed Hirfindë due East, and gave her her head.

Out in the open, wind against his face, cousins receding rapidly into the background, he was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Such a fate - such a fate! The joy - the love - the children! Not his own, but they loved him, and he them: he had felt it.

But no light at the last! It was terrible. Could anything be worth the creeping hopelessness he had felt, in the last seconds of the vision? He could turn around, go back to his cousins, leave Fate alone in the East. Perhaps she would not call a second time, and he could go forth in hope to an unknown ending.

But those eyes! He had never seen anything like those eyes! And the children!

"I will go, Hirfindë," he said aloud. "I cannot do otherwise."

As he rode towards Ossiriand, he thought he heard snatches of song on the wind: too deep to be Elvish, too fair to be Orcish, in a tongue he did not know. Who was singing? Such joy, in the bitter East!

He raised his own voice in answer.

#finrod #balan (in spirit)#maedhros #maglor #thingol #my writing #silm fic #the silmarillion #ok so I am aware this is like. comically different from the typical interpretation of their hunt #but like #personally I can’t see Maedhros the hypervigilant and paranoid going on a chill outing with his cousin #no matter how many years of peace they’d had #also me writing any fic abt finrod: how can I make this secretly abt bëor

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