Author's Note:

I was re-reading The Silmarillion and, well, I guess I just became inspired to write about Finrod. However, this is in Beren's point of view.

Regarding languages: Unlike in my other oneshot [If Fire Was Burned], I'm using Sindarin for the names, since this time period was after it was ordered that no one could speak the language of the Noldor.

Also, I took Finrod's last words from the book, which I obviously do not own. The title was taken from the italicized quote.

My beta, stick-at-nought shady, deserves some serious thanks, since she put up with all the angst. :)

Hope you enjoy!

A Song of Staying

"Then sudden Felagund there swaying

Sang in answer a song of staying..."

- J.R.R. Tolkien, 'The Silmarillion'

In the darkness, there was singing.

Beren preferred the peaceful songs of the Elves to this, by far. They were soothing, but this was purely truculent- strident, and rubbing like gravel against his ears. With an ache in his heart, he thought of the beautiful daughter of Melian and Thingol, far away from this terrible land, back in a verdant forest with trees that danced in the wind like her. Her singing had been lovely. This... this made his heart tremble in fear, thrumming like the strings of a harp beneath his disguise as an Orc.

And he was not even the singer. Before him, Finrod Felagund battled with Sauron in a fight of songs of power. The Elven-lord looked weary and haggard already, pain etched into his face. He was visibly weakened, shuddering in horror. His ragged breathing could be heard easily. With the rising chant of Sauron's song, he staggered forward, almost falling to his knees.

No! Beren screamed to Finrod in his mind, clenching his fists and looking on with wide-eyed despair. He could not force himself to speak; his jaw was frozen into place. You cannot falter! You cannot lose hope; you cannot give up! You cannot fall! For, as it seemed to him, brave men like Finrod were not meant to die. Of course, Finrod was no mortal Man, but an undying Noldo who had once seen the light of Aman. But there was no light in his face now, only a broken sort of sorrow. Perhaps the light of the legendary Trees in his eyes had been a mere reflection. Now that he was turned toward the darkness, there was no brilliance in his gaze. And now he bent like a blade of grass struck by a sudden wind. Beren shut his eyes for a moment, unable to keep watching.

For what man could stand to watch an ally and friend fall like a swiftly withered tree?

Then there was another song. Beren caught his breath, looking on in shock as Finrod struggled back to his feet. He felt emotion surge through him. Bravery. Strength. Persistence. Devotion. Alliance. And most of all, hope- a strong, pure hope. It was a light that pierced the blackness, as sharp as any sword.

It was as if the world spun around him, whirling back and forth between light and darkness. Words were shot like arrows, fast and mighty. Chants were swung like swords, cutting deep. But words were like healing, staunching the bleeding and binding the splintered bones. Beren shivered to hear Finrod's powerful voice chant out a song of Valinor, of the place in the West that he would never see. It was a golden flicker on the horizon, a lost hope stained with the whispers of blood...

Blood. There was blood in the singing, in waves that lapped against the shores of Aman. There were knives flashing. There was death in the Blessed Realm, and all that he had heard about the beauty of Valinor seemed like lies. Fair white ships were tainted with blood, and figures stooped with sorrow trudged across an endless land of ice and cold.

"Finrod..." he whispered, his hope crumbling when he saw the former ruler of Nargothrond. The Elf was lying motionless at Sauron's feet as if dead. Then, suddenly, Beren felt his disguise withdraw, and he and his companions were revealed for who they truly were. But even as Sauron stared them down, Beren could not take his eyes from the almost lifeless body of Finrod Felagund.

Beren would have almost preferred the threats to this. It was too dark to see much, and his hands and feet were tightly bound. There was no choice any longer, only the option of lying helplessly as the wolves devoured their valiant companions. Their eyes were bright, and Beren hoped to everything that he knew that those bright eyes would not fix upon him. Occasionally, screams would ring out nearby, and he could feel the wolf's hot breath on his skin as it fed.

"Finrod," he whispered. There was no answer, only the sound of labored breathing. Was it his own? He did not stop to ponder. "Finrod," he said, louder, with more desperation. He dimly remembered seeing Finrod crumpled like discarded parchment on the ground, his bright hair sticking to his face with sweat. Tears sprang to Beren's eyes, and he let out an agitated whisper. "Finrod! Finrod!"

He heard a soft moan from beside him, and his heart leaped. "Beren," Felagund whispered, his voice hoarse. "I am here." His voice, Beren noted, sounded slightly pained, and an echo of the broken song was woven into it.

Beren subconsciously tried to see the ring upon his finger. It was a symbol of alliance, of oaths, of loyalty, of friendship. That ring had brought Finrod here, to his death. He was sickened by it, and he was tempted to pry it off before he remembered that his hands were shackled together. "Are- are there any left alive?" he asked.

"No," said Finrod. His voice was hollow, empty. "Sauron will kill one of us next. And I... it shall not..." He sighed, sounding almost unwilling to speak. "What has this been for, all along?" he asked. "What is a Silmaril next to life, to love?" Finrod paused. "Silmarils cannot buy loyalty, Beren son of Barahir. You are trading love for doom."

Beren could not answer, not to a statement like that. His heart twisted as he thought of those blessed days in Doriath, when life was a constant dance of love. They were gone now, and perhaps doom was on the horizon, and Finrod's words were true. The Elven-lord did seem to have some type of foresight. Instead, Beren found himself asking a different kind of question. "Finrod," he said, "are you... are you..." The words stuck in his throat like bitter wine.

"I am in no danger of dying from the contest of songs," Felagund said, as if anticipating his question. "I have lived through, my friend." The words were meant to comfort Beren, but they were useless.

"You fell," Beren said numbly, squinting into the direction that his friend's voice had come from for some glimpse of his face. "You fell at his feet. You were dying." Then he was shocked at his own words. Why had he said that? He shut his eyes, suppressing nervous tears. "It is my doing that you are even here."

There came a quiet exhalation from Finrod, and then Beren heard the sound of strangled sobs through the silence. They were almost imperceptible. "I shall not fall for my own sake," Felagund insisted, but his voice was strained. "I could not have been near to death."

Soon, neither knew what to say, and there was a miserable, choking quiet, broken occasionally when one of them succumbed to their despair and cried. Beren waited for the eyes to come. They will come for me next, he thought, biting his lip. The Noldor are more valuable than the Men. Then they will torture Finrod. He shook his head out of habit, not wanting to think such dark thoughts in an already dark land.

It was all dark, except for the glinting wolf-eyes.

Beren involuntarily cried out as the wolf loomed over his supine body. Its breath was fetid with the reek of meat, and he gasped for air as it placed a paw on his chest. He could hear nothing but the pounding of blood through his skull, but he could still feel his chest heaving beneath the wolf's claws. There was a light pricking feeling that intensified as the claws dug into his torso, and spots of blood spread on his skin. He felt his heart pounding. Death, Beren. You shall die. You shall be killed here in the darkness.

He heard a shout from nearby, and the sound of rope tearing apart. His heart skipped when he saw his friend's face, set in an expression of determined desperation. "No!" Finrod yelled, struggling to his feet and careening with a thump on top of the beast. "Sauron!" he screamed, although he was likely not heard. "I swore to protect him, and I shall! Beren-"

Felagund gave a cry of pain as the wolf sank its teeth into his leg. Beren was so surprised that he could only watch. Again, he thought. I am always watching Finrod Felagund save my life. His last ally's blood was oozing onto the stone. As Beren watched, Finrod twisted his body and struck at the wolf with his bare hands, clawing with rabid, primal yell that sounded more suited to the wolf. The creature whined in pain as the Noldo's hands found its throat and squeezed. Beren smiled grimly. Yes, perhaps Finrod could kill the wolf and escape with his own life.

It was that horrible, beautiful oath again. It was not as dreadful as the oath that Fëanor and his sons had sworn, but it seemed just as agonizing. Beren watched as his friend risked his precious life for him- him, a mortal. He could not intervene. It was beyond him, and he could swear that Finrod's song of power was echoing through the black pit.

Or perhaps the song had now dissolved into Finrod's choked screams. The wolf's jaws were locked around his throat, and he was gagging and gasping for air, his eyes panicked and wide, searching for Beren. "Finrod!" the Man called, almost hysterically. "Finrod! Finrod! No!" But Felagund's bright eyes were dimming and falling shut, with his face wrenched into a pained expression. Beren sobbed, unable to free himself.

Then it was Finrod who was biting the wolf. Beren stared, surprised at Finrod's actions, as the Elf bit down on the wolf's neck with a mad, feral growl. Felagund's throat was streaming blood, and tears were on his face as he fought. He paused for breath, and forced out one word. "Beren..." Then he was weeping loudly as the wolf gnawed at him, its jaws around his stomach. His breathing wheezed, and he stretched out one arm.

Finrod's bloodied, cut hand grasped Beren's and squeezed. "You are safe," Felagund said, gasping for air between words. "Do not weep. You will not be killed now." Finrod was so achingly close, but Beren was bound tightly and unable to reach him. He felt the Noldo's spasms of pain as the wolf mauled him. There was a sickening snap as the beast bit down on Finrod's ribs. The Elf screamed and thrashed, his hand slipping from Beren's to push the wolf away.

The once-silent pit was filled with sound. It was a melody of screams and sobs, of howls and shouts. But the silence was mounting again as Finrod fell silent. Beren was in wordless shock for a moment, before his screams began. "No!" he yelled, repeating his thoughts aloud over and over. "You cannot die! You cannot give up, Finrod! Please..."

Slowly, Felagund raised himself up into a sitting position, with an unrestrained sound of pain. He lunged forward, bowling the wolf over onto its back, and clamped his teeth down, clinging tight to the creature's body as it flailed beneath him and clawed at his unprotected face. But it was dying from lack of air, and Beren fell silent again, watching its body go limp with a sense of victory.

And he remembered his dying comrade.

"F-Finrod?" he asked shakily, as the Elf collapsed beside him. Beren felt his blood trickle onto the ground and onto his skin.

"Beren," Finrod breathed, his hand reaching out and clutching at Beren's wrist. "I swore that I would not let you die, son of Barahir." There were tears in his eyes that threatened to spill over, but he kept speaking, disregarding his broken body. "I go now to my long rest in the timeless halls beyond the seas and the Mountains of Aman." His hand found the ring, the ring that was proof of loyalty and friendship, the ring that had decreed Finrod's death. "It will be long ere I am seen among the Noldor again; and it may be that we shall not meet a second time in death or life, for the fates of our kindreds are apart."

He stared into Beren's eyes and grasped his hand again. Blood trickled from the side of his mouth. He breathed hard, and mouthed a single word, momentarily unable to speak. Then he coughed, and a tear fell from his eye. "Farewell!" he said, and his eyes shut, and Finrod Felagund breathed no more.

The song had ended.

No.

It was not meant to be; it had never been meant to be. Finrod Felagund should not have died. Beren should have been the one torn apart in the darkness. The Man refused to let go of Finrod's hand.

And as Beren wept helplessly, he knew then of Finrod's loyalty. He had sacrificed himself, giving himself a fate that had not been directly decreed to the Eldar. Nargothrond had lost its beloved ruler, and all was darkened in Beren's mind. The light of a Silmaril could not illuminate the black grief in his heart. Perhaps Finrod had been right: the Silmarils could not buy any loyalty, and neither could any song.

Loyalty was bought from itself.