At the summit of the cliffs was a network of caverns in Rivil's Wall, a refuge hidden from sight. Waterfalls from the Rivil tumbling down the cliff faces covered the mouths of the caves like curtains of glass. Here Barahir and his men guided the wet, wearied, wounded Elves and at last let them rest in a large chamber wherein a small fire burned. Barahir eased Finrod to the dusty floor. Small rivers of blood wet the gray dust. Both Barahir and his kinsman who had aided Finrod up the stairway appeared wounded, for blood coated their cloaks and tunics, and in dismay the other men in the caves cried, "Alas, lord, you have been injured!"
"Nay, I am unscathed," said Barahir, "but the Elves here are not. Do not stare at me as if I were an Orc. Bring water and healing supplies forthwith!"
Pain staved off by the thrill of battle now assailed Finrod brutally in the quietude of the cavern now that the strength lent to him by fear and fury had dissipated. About him he heard the scuffle of footsteps, the din of voices. His limbs were immobile, pinned to the earth under waves of anguish. But death was not to take him yet; it would come another way, an oath fulfilled, a Doom broken.
Fingal, favoring his left leg on which the dying horse had smote him, hobbled over to Finrod and knelt beside him. He had a bloodstained bandage wrapped around his forehead.
"My lord Felagund," said Fingal. "You are sorely hurt."
"But not yet marred beyond healing," said Finrod weakly. He must look as if he was taking his very last breaths, for he beheld sorrow and fear in the eyes of the younger Noldo.
"Your fëa cannot pass into Valinor yet," whispered Fingal, his voice shaking, and he held his hands over the gash on Finrod's shoulder. Blood welled up between his fingers.
"Even if I die here, I shall not pass into Valinor," answered Finrod. "Unless I am released from my doom, my houseless fëa is ever consigned to the Halls of Mandos."
The young Elf, born in Middle-earth long after the Noldor came to Beleriand, looked at him in horror. "Lo!" he cried. "Tales told in dark nights are true then! Ye who followed Fëanor into Exile are doomed to suffer in the Halls of Waiting until the end of Arda, your hröas severed from your fëas."
"Aye," said Finrod, squeezing shut his eyes.
"It is not natural!"
Finrod did not answer, for he did not wish for a debate about the retribution of the Valar and the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, deeds from long ago. His body hurt so grievously that the severing of i hröa /i from i fëa /i -- as horrific as that was to the Eldar -- seemed a lesser torment than his present anguish.
Barahir appeared suddenly and joined Fingal kneeling over Finrod. "My Lord Felagund," he said. "I shall be greatly dismayed to have gone through the trouble of rescuing you only for you to die here."
"Alas, instead I must hearken my kinsman's grievances about words and deeds that would be ancient to you," said Finrod.
"Well, better that you are alive and can hear his grievances," replied Barahir with a smile. "Grievances to a corpse would be for naught."
Together Fingal and Barahir eased off the bloodied chain mail, which had saved the king's life, for he had wounds that would have been mortal otherwise. With deft fingers Barahir probed the deep punctures and gashes, and he said, "Be glad you are of Elf-kind. These would have slain any Man." To Fingal, he queried, "Your people have skills in healing that far surpass ours. What must be done?"
"We have no lembas with us, and that would give him strength. But I think his own strength will be enough if we cleanse and bind the wounds."
Whatever cloth could be gathered they pressed against the deep stab wounds in his shoulder, his side, and his leg to staunch the bleeding. When the blood coursing from the wounds ebbed, they bathed them with water brought up from the stream and alcohol brought from other chambers, and then they bound the gashes with clean cloth. Fingal said, "I am a better warrior than healer."
"You are surely a better healer than any here," said Barahir. "Our healers are either slain or otherwise cannot come to our aid. Never have I met one of your folk entirely ignorant of healing or dispossessed of whatever magic you have and we do not."
Fingal looked doubtful, but his hands he pressed against Finrod's wounds and a lament he chanted, a verse about the passing of daylight, the breathing of the ocean, the waves washing away tears and memory. The Men shivered and looked upon him in wonder as he sang. Finrod felt a slight easing of his pain. But Fingal trembled, and his face was pale and wan. "Fingal," Finrod said, "You have done more than your duty. Tend to your own hurts and rest a while and do not trouble yourself about me." With a weary bow, Fingal left the king to use his remaining strength tend others and then rest himself, for he had not escaped the Fen wholly unharmed.
Barahir, who remained at Finrod's side, said, "There are other duties I must attend to. Will you survive if I leave you for a little while?"
Finrod answered, "I had more strength in me after crossing the Helcaraxë than I do at this moment, but I am more fatally wounded in spirit than body."
Barahir blinked at him uncomprehending.
"Angrod and Aegnor were slain defending Dorthonion," explained Finrod, "I had led my force to the North to aid them, but came too late."
"Ah, my heart grieves for your loss," said Barahir, squeezing the uninjured shoulder. But he remained kneeling at the Elven-king's side, a pensive look in his gray eyes.
"Attend what duties call you," said Finrod. "What you heard me tell Fingal was no falsehood: my time to depart this world has not yet come, and I will live to return to my kingdom."
Then Barahir left him for a time to attend to his own people and gather what news he could of the Dagor Bragollach. Utterly spent Finrod lay as one dead upon the cavern floor, and a fever from the poisons of Orc weapons burned hotter than the fires that had destroyed Ard-galen. Dreams misty and vague like fog rolling across the River Narog plagued Finrod's fevered sleep. Once he glimpsed across crystal waters the white shores of Valinor and the glowing beacon of Tirion upon Túna. His heart lifted and he reached for it, but then the fog rose, obscuring his sight, engulfing shining Valinor. Of his many fevered dreams, only the vision of Valinor was unsullied by fog and darkness. For many hours the fever boiled in his blood, but he was a Noldo of great might and his strength slowly seeped into his body to defeat the fever.
As the sun chased away the moon, Barahir returned to the cave with food and drink for the Elves. He roused Finrod from his stupor, begging him to eat or at least drink. Finrod, exhausted from embattling fever and aching in every limb, had no appetite for food, but he took water from Barahir and then lay down again. After feeding those Elves who would eat, Barahir sat down at Finrod's side counting the king's shallow breaths. A Man who bore wounds like those of Finrod would be dead. Though Finrod's face remained fair as the morning light, blood and mud caked and matted his golden hair and his blue and silver raiment. His skin was sallow and bloodless, his breast rose and fell slowly and unevenly.
At midday, he opened his eyes while Fingal was tending to the wound in his side, and he said to Barahir, "Have you not other duties?"
Barahir answered, "Nay, my lord."
"I cannot imagine."
"It is my duty to repay the debt of my people to you."
"That you have done ten times over," said Finrod. He shut his eyes, but he thought of oaths: the oath of Fëanor and his sons binding them to pursue anyone who possessed a Silmaril unto death. That oath he became enmeshed in when he followed Fëanor from Alqualondë and was thus bound beside all the Exiles to the Curse. If Fëanor had been less arrogant, impulsive, and foolish, the West -- in life or death -- would not be barred to the Elves of Finarfin's and Fingolfin's houses who had followed him. Then with fondness Finrod recalled the four and forty years of the loyal service and friendship of Bëor. The debt that Barahir had spoken of was repaid long ago. The only debt now needing repayment belonged to Finrod.
. He wondered if the strange glimpse of Aman through feverish mist had been another moment of foresight, a beacon guiding him across a treacherous stone path already laid before his feet. As a healing sleep once again devoured his thought, he wished wistfully that Galadriel were here; she was better than he at understanding such things.