For two weeks the host of Felagund raced northwards across Talath Dirnen, the plain of Sirion. In the hills hidden towers guarded the plain, and hunters armed with bows and arrows patrolled the woods, hence no one passed through Finrod's realm unseen. Finrod learned from the march-wardens he spoke to as they followed Sirion upstream that small parties of Orcs had spilled into the plain and had been swiftly slain, but most of the fighting raged behind the mountains and in East Beleriand. For now, the mountains in the North and the Girdle of Melian on his Eastern borders protected all but his northern fiefs from Morgoth. May those defenses hold, he thought. If Morgoth should overrun Doriath, then what chance would Nargothrond stand? If even the Girdle of Melian had no power to constrain their foe, then the army of Nargothrond could not prevail against his forces.
Soon after they crossed the River Teiglin, they encamped for the night at the head of the Pass of Sirion, within sight of Tol Sirion and the glittering white tower of Minas Tirith that Finrod had wrought long ago and was now held by his nephew Orodreth. After Finrod had retired to his tent, the sentries alerted him to the approach of a small, ragged party of Elves riding from the Northeast bearing the banners of the House of Finarfin.
Finrod descried the banners shining dimly in the light of the setting sun with the serrated teeth of the dark mountains at their backs. He did not stop to speak to anyone; he hastened from his tent and met the party from Dorthonion at the edges of his encampment. The sun had nearly vanished behind Ered Wethrin and darkness was shrouding the lands. Smoke from the fires burning in Ard-galen made for a bloodied sunset of oranges and reds and golds more brilliant than every jewel in Nargothrond. In the burnished glow of the sunset and the glimmering light of the torches that the sentries began lighting, the faces of the strangers were wasted to look upon. Deep shadows lingered under their haunted eyes. Most were on foot and their horses, thin and lathered from hard going, bore the wounded.
"What news?" cried Finrod.
"King Felagund, I am Nóreg of Dorthonion," said the foremost Elf. "We had not hoped for a host from Nargothrond arriving." He bowed low to Finrod. "We were on our way there."
"For what reason do ye seek Nargothrond?" asked Finrod. "What has happened? I see that things have gone ill with your party. What path brought you hither?"
"We fled through the Ered Gorgoroth," whispered Nóreg. "I care not to tell of the horrors of that road lest they return to my mind."
"Ye fled," began Finrod. iFled from what? Words formed in his throat and then dissolved. "My brothers... What of them? What has befallen them?"
Nóreg cast down his eyes and took a shuddering breath. "Dorthonion has been overthrown. A few scattered bands of Atani still fight, but it is lost. Your brothers were slain on the northfacing slopes defending Dorthonion from what seemed every Orc in Angband."
Grief seized Finrod's heart. He grasped Nóreg's forearm. "It cannot be!" he cried.
"Nay, my lord" said Nóreg sadly. "They fought bravely as befits those of the blood of Finwë, and but for them the hosts of Morgoth would have moved south. Thus far he is contained in Dorthonion."
Finrod's throat closed, and he said hoarsely, "Has all of Dorthonion fallen then, the Siege broken? Do we no longer hold any territory there?"
"The Edain, the people of Barahir and Bregolas, have not yet been utterly destroyed, at least when we took flight. Bregolas was killed alongside your brothers, but Barahir still holds the territory westward, as far as we know."
"And Hithlum?"
"Remains unconquered."
"Whither has the host of Angrod and Aegnor gone? Surely ye cannot be all that survived." Finrod judged Nóreg to be leading not more than two-dozen Elves. If these were all who lived, then the situation of the North was far more hopeless than it had been two weeks ago when Thorondor had flown to Nargothrond bearing his tidings.
"Few escaped the fires and the dragons," said Nóreg, "but those who did have scattered, to ye or to Orodreth at Tol Sirion, and a few to Barahir. Perhaps some made it to Fingolfin and to Hador and Húrin of Dor-lómin. But there is no strength left in the Eldar of Dorthonion, unless your host can repel Morgoth."
Finrod turned to Túveren, who had come up behind him, and he said, "Find Nóreg and his company tents and care for the wounded. Also, send riders to Tol Sirion and Doriath to alert Galadriel and Orodreth."
Then he turned away to seek the privacy of his tent and there sat long in grief. Pain welled up in his breast. The impetuous light of his two youngest brothers had been extinguished. A small corner of his heart refused to believe it and cried out in protest. They had been bold and bright, loving the thrill of battle far more than Finrod and Galadriel. In the darkest nights, their spirits never dimmed. Often they had been unthinking and rash, more like sons of Fëanor than the other children of Finarfin, but always they had shown high courage and never shirked their duty or betrayed their comrades. Their fiery spirits had fled to the Halls of Mandos as the Vala had foretold. There they would remain for eternity, consigned by the Curse to a fate of yearning for the shores of Valinor, an undeserved fate. The words of Mandos on the shores of Alqualondë cut Finrod like a sword. Their hands were unsullied by Teleri blood! Finrod cried out silently to the Valar, who remained deaf to him, it seemed. Why should they be the first of Finwë's blood to fall after Fëanor?
Finrod rued his choice to pursue Fëanor to Middle-earth. Alas that Fëanor had forged those accursed Silmarilli and wrought such havoc. Alas that Finrod had not remained in Aman with his father. Alas that wanderlust had consumed him and driven him to follow Fëanor no matter the cost. He took long, shuddering breaths. The tears he could not hold back and silently they coursed down his cheeks.
At length Túveren came to Finrod's tent. "I would leave you in peace," he said, "But there is no time even to grieve. What must be done now? The mountains of Dorthonion make it an impenetrable fortress to all save the strongest armies, and if Morgoth has taken it, I doubt we have the power to assail it and reclaim it."
Finrod brushed errant strands of hair out of his eyes and gazed at the sky just outside the tent flap. The same stars shone over distant Valinor, where peace yet reigned without death or treachery. They shone over Nargothrond, the hidden fortress in its deep canyon and over all the outposts in Finrod's vast kingdom that was fated to be torn asunder. They shone over the graves of the dead on the high plateau of Dorthonion and over Fingolfin's beleaguered army in Hithlum and Maedhros' in East Beleriand. Even over Angband and the Iron Mountains, the stars shone, unquenchable lights that the darkness of Morgoth could not put out.
It was their duty to press on for Dorthonion, their duty to face Morgoth in battle and aid their allies. But Finrod never had loved battle, and now weariness beset him, the weight of death and of four hundred years of exile. Vengeance should be first and foremost in his mind, but it remained a distant afterthought and kindled no fire in his spirit. He yearned to sit by a quiet fire and play on his harp tunes of mourning for his brothers.
"My lord?" said Túveren.
"More than ever now, we are needed now in the North," said Finrod, blinking back tears. A king must not let grief devour him on the eve of battle. "Come the first light of dawn, we will break camp and meet the host of Orodreth at Tol Sirion and then make for the Fen of Serech. From there we can decide whether Dorthonion can be retaken."
"If it cannot?"
"We lend our aid to Fingolfin's forces. Now leave me for a while. I would be alone."
Túveren hesitated in the tent flap and did not flinch when Finrod glared at him. "My lord, have you eaten?"
"Nay, I am not hungry. Rouse me ere the sun rises." A fey light gleamed in his eyes. Túveren withdrew from the tent and the flap fell shut, blocking the stars from Finrod's view. He was a king, and so could not cease leading his people, not for any cause short of mortal injury or death, but he let himself grieve in the quiet night when no duties pressed him, for tomorrow there would be little time for mourning. He shivered with a sudden chill. Once he had foreseen that he would not live to see a Second Age of this world pass, and in that thought he found solace knowing pain would not be everlasting. Many years before, Galadriel had asked why he had not taken a wife, and the cold thought had assailed him that he too would swear an oath bringing his death. It had been a sudden flash of foresight, for the reason that he had not taken a wife was that the one whom he had loved was Amarië of the Vanyar, and she had remained in Valinor while he had followed Fëanor into exile.