For two days Finrod strayed in thought and did not move nor eat, but on the second day, clouds sitting upon the mountains dissolved and the rays of the rising sun shone into the caves, dappling the gray walls with points of jeweled light. Finrod stirred and found that Barahir had gone. A small measure of his strength had returned. No longer did pain like iron chains bind his limbs to the chamber floor. Such was the power and gift of the Eldar that their bodies healed quickly.
He sat up. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he waited for the Man's return. An oath I too must swear, he had once said to Galadriel many years ago. And what better reason was there to swear an oath of friendship than for valor in battle and for saving one's life? He sighed and watched the dance of the small fire.
After he had done what he must do here, he would lead his remaining followers back to Nargothrond. Both he and they were too dispirited for further war, even should the Enemy leave these caves unspoilt and the Eldar in peace, and should they be granted time enough here for their wounds to heal. The Elves who had survived the Fen looked more forlorn and wearied than Finrod had ever seen them. He could ask no more of them. The forces of his brothers were scattered like leaves before a wind and beyond his aid, and his company was so weakened that he doubted he could lend much strength to those still fighting: Fingon, Fingolfin, the Men of Dor-lómin, and Fëanor's sons.
"My lord, you look as if your health is returning," said Fingal. "Do you feel as if it is?"
"Aye," Finrod replied. "All my wounds will heal soon enough. What of the others?"
"Many fell in the Fen, but of those Barahir's men rescued none have been lost, though many are grievously hurt. We are greatly in their debt."
More than you know, thought Finrod darkly. He looked about the chamber and there saw the survivors, wearied, many still coated with dirt and blood, troubled and dejected. "As soon as we are hale enough to travel," he said, "we return to Nargothrond."
"Then we will not aid further in the battle?"
Finrod shook his head. "We have lost too many. Better that we should live and regroup for a time in Nargothrond and face Morgoth another day."
Dismay shadowed Fingal's face, and Finrod perceived the young Elf's thoughts; he desired vengeance, not defeat. The young are swift to anger, slow to gain wisdom, thought Finrod. Not even for vengeance would Finrod sacrifice the remainder his kingdom in a losing battle – Elves captured alive would be tortured to reveal Nargothrond. At least Fingal would not gainsay his king; he swallowed his embittered thoughts and said only, "Are you hungry, my lord? Nothing have you eaten for three days."
The poison of grief and of Orc arrows had ebbed enough to revive Finrod's interest in food. He ate some of the fruit and dried meat that the Edain had left in the cave overnight and found a little more strength there.
Some hours later Barahir returned to the cavern and was delighted to see Finrod and the others awake. Smiling joyously he knelt before the king, crying, "The Valar be praised! We feared our rescue was for naught."
"If ye had saved even one of us from death or capture, it would have been for more than naught. But we shall be taking our leave soon," said Finrod.
"Whither will ye go?"
"Back to Nargothrond. My people have not the heart for battle and we have come hither too late. Dorthonion has fallen, and we have been scarred by the pain of loss; only our sorrows could we offer to Hithlum and Dor-lómin, and that is a commodity they do not need more of."
Barahir nodded and said that whenever Finrod and his people were ready to depart, he knew of a secret path to Tol Sirion, wherein they could reconvene with the remainder of their company and Orodreth. While the Elves had convalesced in the chambers for the last two days, he had learned from his Men in the field that Orodreth had fled to his fortified isle pursued by Orcs, but the river and the walls of Minas Tirith had withstood an attack, and from there Orodreth's host had driven the Orcs back to the Fen.
"If ye wish to avoid more fighting, ye ought to hasten to Nargothrond," Barahir concluded grimly. "Also I have learned that more legions pour forth from Angband, and Morgoth's most dreaded servant commands them. Sauron, a Maia of great power. I think your people call him Gorthaur."
Finrod bowed his head, pressing his fingers to his temples. "Your small force stands no chance, then. Will you remain here?"
"These are our lands. We shall die defending them rather than flee."
While the loss of his brothers still felt like a bleeding wound, Finrod had awakened from long sleep feeling like life was again bearable. Always he had loved life: the softness of green grass, the breath of the ocean, the song of the river running beneath his fortress, the sculpted trees; the smooth feel of harp strings against his fingers. But sorrow tempered joy – the doom of the Noldor, forgotten after the Aglareb, would overtake Beleriand. Who would survive to see the next Age? Not Finrod Felagund.
In spite of his wounds, he rose to his feet. The gash in his thigh came close to the bone, a grievous wound even for an Elf, and the leg would not yet bear his full weight. A disturbing sight to behold he was, the fairest of the Eldar limping, bereft of grace in his movement. Men eyed him askance and his own folk cringed.
"Barahir," he said, "is there a chamber where you and I can speak in private?"
He limped after Barahir into a chamber dimly lit by a single torch on the wall. There the Noldorin king knelt down on one knee before the Man who held no royal title, saying, "By the powers of Manwë and Varda, I swear to thee an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need, to thee and thine heirs and kin unto death or the ending of the world."
Barahir stared astonished. "My lord Felagund," he said and then words failed him.
Finrod bore a ring of twin serpents, their eyes made of emeralds, their heads meeting under a crown of flowers that one upheld and the other consumed. It was the badge of the House of Finarfin. This he removed from his finger, and he took Barahir's hand in his own and placed the ring in his palm. "As a token of my oath I give to you this ring, the symbol of my house. In Aman it was made ere the making of those accursed jewels, the destruction of the Two Trees and the death of my grandfather and the rebellion of fell Fëanor. To Aman it shall not return. Let it be an heirloom of your House, though seas may swallow these lands and battles will rage hither. Let the bond between the Edain and the House of Finarfin not waver no matter what fell deeds befall Middle-earth."
Releasing Barahir's hand Finrod rose to his feet, and Barahir gazed at the ring in his palm, riveted. The emerald eyes of the serpents glittered in the torchlight. Then Barahir raised his eyes to the face of the Elven-king, and he said, "King Felagund, but for your kindness we should be stumbling about in the dark. Out of the gentleness of your heart, you played your harp and spoke with my grandfather. Ever you have been our friend and our ally, and there is no friend for whom I would not put myself at peril to rescue from death or worse."
"You cannot gainsay me," said Finrod. "The oath is sworn, but let your heart find peace in knowing that I do not swear by the Valar needlessly." Bound as he was now to Barahir and all his kin, Finrod felt a lightness seeping into his heart. He had foreseen deliverance for himself: an oath in the throes of his death breaking the bonds of Mandos' curse.