Chapter 3

Early the next morning Finrod positioned his army across the Vale of Sirion, supplementing the forces manning the bulwarks made earlier by Artaresto and ordered an attack in hopes of breaking through the enemy's line. They managed that surprisingly quickly, slicing through the Orcs with an ease of a knife slicing butter. That alone should have rang an alarm in his head but – it did not.

The Orcs began to fly in disarray, some towards the river, where they found their deaths in the swift waters of Sirion, some towards the hills of Dorthonion, Finrod's cavalry on their heels, yet others back north along the narrow valley, and these he pursued himself, leading his main host.

They pressed on, into the thick cloud of acrid fumes, and before nightfall – or at least before what he assumed must have been a nightfall – they reached the border of the fens and crossed it, hot in pursuit, in hopes of reaching the Rivil and crossing it in its shallow flow near the mouth, before turning right and advancing along it and into the narrow gorge that led into Dorthonion.

Finrod's desperate need to make haste proved their undoing. He urged his men on and as soon as they reached the river, they attempted the crossing. The visibility was nigh null, the air hot and burning their lungs, and despite the season, wading through water was almost a relief. The vanguard, of which, in an unusual move, he had taken personal command, had just finished their crossing when suddenly arrows came out of the thick fume, whistling towards them, piercing flesh and eliciting cries of pain, and then, reeds surrounding them swarm with Orcs, who hurled themselves on them with a terrible roar.

A trap! Caught mid-maneuver, his men tried to form a sandastan[i], but the sheer number of the enemies made it crumble in several places and they were separated.

And so, here he was, surrounded in the fen with only a handful of soldiers, cut from his army, unable to see what was happening outside the tight circle of their foes, and powerless to do anything but fight on in hopes of killing as many of the Enemy's breed as possible. The disaster was entirely his fault, that much he knew with a piercing clarity and there was only one way out that did not lead to the shadowy horrors of Angamando: the wide paved path towards a long penance in the Halls of Awaiting.

A long time ago, he had told Altáriel that he shall swear an oath and for its sake go into darkness unto his death. Yet foresight had proved treacherous: how could he have suspected that speaking of the future, he had in fact spoken of an oath already sworn? And yet, what else was his bond with his brothers and their following if not an oath of mutual love and faith, what else this fight amid the searing fumes and fires, without the sun, or moon, or stars to guide them, if not darkness unto the death?

Slowly, all other thoughts ceased, and his whole being concentrated upon just one goal: to kill as many as he could and never let them take him alive. He had no shield, his own having been hacked into pieces and he wore a helmet pulled off the head of his own dead man.

Suddenly, an opening. The shield of his nearest soldier broke under the heavy blows of an axe and he sprang forward, slicing the Orc's arm still caught amid the splinters of wood and twisted iron. Yet this move left him opened for an attack, and immediately an Orc arrow buried itself deeply into his exposed thigh.

He cried and stumbled, trying to keep his footing, but his pierced leg could not bear his weight – and he fell face first into the bloody mud.

"The King's down!"

He felt some movement about him and soon a pair of strong though slightly unsteady hands was turning him and he found himself looking into the pale face of Edrahil.

"'It's but a scratch. Help me up," he ordered, tasting blood and mud on his tongue.

But Edrahil did not move. "My lord–"

"Help me up!" repeated Finrod more sharply and in that very moment all sensations caught back with him and he felt hot searing pain spreading from the wound with each heartbeat: a poison. He grunted and taking quick rugged breaths, rasped, "I'll… die here… Edrahil. Deny… not–" Another hiss, hands clenched into fists. "Save…'em an'… go to… 'Resto an'… serve 'im… give… my love… and Father's… ring…" He tried to pull off his gauntlet but his hands would not obey him.

Seeing that, Edrahil gently removed the heavy glove, followed by the ring, and pressed Finrod's hand to his lips, his shoulders shaking. "My lord–"

Finrod twisted his hand in Edrahil's grip and brushed his fingers faintly across the Steward's sooth-streaked face. Farewell. Thank you.

By now, his whole body was aflame, his lungs burning, his head swimming and darkness started to creep on the edges of his vision. He did not have much time. But to stand once again, distract the enemy and buy his men a chance to flee – for that he should have enough. "Help… me… up," he demanded of Edrahil for the third time and when the Steward did not move, Finrod tried to get up by himself, using his sword for a crutch and the pole of his standard – the device of the House of Arafinwe[ii] the only sun left to them – for a support.

Suddenly, horns rang though his throbbing head, everything whirled convulsively, his legs gave in – and darkness swallowed him.

When the King went down, Edrahil did not even have to order the men – they moved swiftly of their own accord, forcing the enemy back to form a protective wall of shields, and spears, and swords around their prone lord. His eyes moved to assess the situation and he gasped, his stomach twisting: the King's thigh was pierced by an arrow. Letting his breath out to calm himself, he knelt swiftly beside Finrod and reached to move him, only for his hands to brush across another, trembling pair. He looked into the wild, shocked eyes of a healer girl. He nodded to her – go on – and helped her turn the King over, cradling his head in his arms. Finrod was conscious but obviously confused, mumbling about fighting their way through to Lord Orodreth.

Despair gripped Edrahil's heart. This was it. They would all die here, in this bloody fen, or be taken. He did not want his last memory of Finrod to be like this, his face ashen-grey and twisted in pain, bloody mud smeared across his cheek, fey light in his eyes. He'd rather remember him smiling over a cup full of mead or playing his harp during the happy, peaceful days in Nargothrond or even projecting his natural air of command during a patrol for the leaguer. He did not want to have a last memory of Finrod at all. But everything was better than seeing his lord chained and dragged into Angamando. Everything. Even…

His breath caught in his throat, his entire soul shuddering at the very thought. He tried to move his hand but he seemed to have lost command of his body.

And in that moment, horns sang clearly somewhere near and out of the smoke above the Orcs' heads, a white flower blossomed in a golden nest. "Bëor! Bëor!" rang loudly across the battlefield.

Edrahil turned back to Finrod, full of wonder, and for the second time in the last few minutes shuddered in horror. The King, who must have been trying to stand up, was now falling down again like a rug doll. Alive, he must have still been alive, but unconscious and defenseless could easily be trampled. This close to salvation… He gestured wildly for the healer to get up and threw himself across his King.

Sandir was tired. Every time lifting his sword was more and more difficult. He thought he had never been so exhausted in his entire lifetime, not after a whole day bent low to weed the crops at his parents farm, not as a mason's apprentice during his early days in the city, not even after Captain Astoron made him run in full gear up and down the hills of Taur-en-Faroth for hours on end under the blistering sun of summer.

Now the Captain was back in the second row, having taken a spear to the side at the very beginning when their hastily-formed thangail broke, but still issuing commands and Hweston and Camaen, who had been training alongside him, both dead, one hacked with an axe, the other shot though the eye.

The unexpected arrival of Men renewed his hope after he had already given in to despair. All of a sudden, they were surrounded by a protective circle of sturdy, fresh warriors, whose leader told the Elves to focus on moving their wounded. Sandir could now take a little respite to tie a cut-off edge of his charred tabard as a make-shift bandage in an attempt to staunch the bleeding from a long, shallow cut to his forearm. He realized that although his Captain's wound had been Sung close by a healer, he was nonetheless giddy from pain and blood loss, and so Sandir helped him to move on, for their saviors concentrated their efforts on one side of their thangail, narrowing and lengthening it until it almost became a dirnaith[iii]. He understood they meant to cut their way back out of the crowd of Orcs.

Their progress was slow and arduous, and many of them fell but still, they pressed on. Men and Elves were now all mingled, with some of their own party helping keep the enemies at bay while even now two Men took over the King's unconscious form and Sandir thought he saw him rise his lolled head slightly. Then, he caught the sight of the wide eyes of the healer helping the Lord Steward to walk and being in return helped herself, and he tried to smile encouragingly at her.

On and on, they continued their retreat, wading though the mire, stumbling over hidden obstacles, choking on the acrid fumes that still obscured everything around them.

The next time he looked up from his attempts to find safe footing for his Captain when he perceived a bizarre change about them, just in time to realize that, miraculously, the Orcs were retreating, abandoning their pursuit, though they must have known they could easily kill them all if only they pressed on for a little longer. Those few that remained were quickly dispatched and then they were left alone, the sounds of fighting dying in the distance.

They all stared at each other in disbelief, their rugged breathing giving in to strangled sobs of relief and soon, they were laughing and crying and praising the Rodyn, who had showed them mercy after all.

The leader of their rescuers sought him out amid the post-fight chaos. "My Lord Edrahil? I am–"

"Barahir son of Bregor," he interrupted. "Yes, I recognize you."

The Man gave him a glance-over and, apparently reaching a decision, said, "M'lord, I do not think we can move on the wounded right now. My counsel is we risk camping somewhere near instead of retreating immediately. We are at least a day's march from my entrenched position in the Rivil's gorge and we are all tired. I shall send forth some scouts but unless they bring news of any more enemy troops in the vicinity, we stay here."

Now that the rush of battle was wearing off, Edrahil realized he was bone-tired, every muscle in his body aching, lungs burning and head spinning. Of course, he could not rest just yet, but well did he understand his companions', especially the Mortals', need for respite, so he nodded his assent.

They retreated south towards the Rivil and, using its bank for protection, set up a makeshift camp. There was no other way but to lay the wounded on the bare ground, choosing the driest possible spots. Barahir indicated he would take over the command, so when the two Men made to lower the King, Edrahil stumbled towards them without second thought, pushing his suddenly reluctant companion with him. "Give him to me," he said hoarsely, sitting on the ground and again pulling the girl to follow suit. Heedless of the damp penetrating his clothes, he placed Finrod's head in his lap and nodded to the healer. "Begin, Mistress, and tell me what you need of me."

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" He looked up at her in disbelief. The girl was sitting on folded legs, twisting her hands on her lap, staring blankly ahead and rocking to and fro. "You are a healer, this is your king, get a grip on yourself and do your duty!"

But the girl let out a keening wail and her hands flew up, driving her nails down her face and neck and pulling at her hair. Moving his right arm protectively around Finrod, Edrahil reached with his left hand, unsure if he wanted to pat the panicking girl on the shoulder or shake her.

In that moment Captain Astoron emerged out of the darkness and smoke and, giving him a meaningful stare and mouthing, "Congratulations," he knelt behind the girl and, moving his arms about her, arrested her frantic hands. "Shhhh, it's all right, child. There is no need to harm yourself. You can do it, I know that better than most, don't you think?"

But the girl shook her head jerkily. "No, you don't understand. I am trying to reach for my abilities, but they're not there! I'm trying, I really am." And she tried to free herself from his embrace.

But the old captain would not have it. "Child, Songs of Power are not your only weapon. Surely, you know how to use herbs, and I have a first-hand knowledge of your skills in binding wounds. Just do what you can do for the moment."

"But I… I k–killed living creatures! How can I heal with the same hands I used to… to… to render harm?" She started to fight anew, tears finally spilling.

"You only did what you had been trained to and what you had to in order to survive. It was either you and your comrades or the Enemy's foul spawn. Never forget that. Now, dry your tears and do what you can. Do not let the Enemy have victory over us after all." Astoron released the girl, who obediently brushed her tears with both hands, sniffling, and squared her shoulders.

"I… I will need to wash my hands, and more water to cleanse the wound, and bandages, I don't have any left, and please keep his leg out of this mire." Her voice trembled at the beginning but gained confidence with each word. With a final squeeze to her shoulder Astoron left to find the necessary equipment.

Edrahil, who had followed the exchange intently, his hands mechanically fiddling with the straps of Finrod's spaulders, nodded at the young healer encouragingly – he had not realized just how young and inexperienced she was and it made him sick. The healer – it suddenly occurred to him he did not know her name – moved to the King's other side to examine the damage, while Edrahil returned his undivided attention to making Finrod as comfortable as possible. Unable to unbuckle the straps, he used his dagger to cut the spaulders away and then, gently lifting the lolling head, removed the helmet. Finrod's hair was tangled and matted with sweat and he brushed it away. Beneath, his face was also covered in sweat and dirt, with bloody mud still splattered across the cheek. Suppressing cough, Edrahil wetted his hand in the surrounding water to try to wash away at least this.

His ministrations were interrupted by the return of Captain Astoron, who was accompanied by another soldier, a young Sinda from one of their villages, a bundle of cloth in his hands. "I shall keep the King out of the mire," the captain said, spreading his cloak over a nearby clomp of grasses, where the Sinda deposited his load. "And Sandir can assist you."

But instead of following his own suggestion, the captain crouched beside Edrahil and offered him his canteen. "We do not have much, but do take a drink, my lord." Edrahil stared at him in confusion: Finrod was bleeding to death, and the man was worrying about Edrahil's thirst? "Young man," Astoron's tone, no longer that of a captain to a high-ranking lord but that of an adult to an obstinate youth, broke no argument. "Drink. Collapsing here will not help our lord."

A more reasonable part of him recognized the truth in the old captain's words and he took a swig from the proffered canteen. The water tasted of mould and blood and it was the sweetest thing he had ever drank, far surpassing even Lady Yavanna's miruvórë and Edrahil took one more mouthful before tearing himself from the canteen and returning it to Astoron with a nod of thanks.

Fandis set out her kit next to the bandages, while Astoron improvised a lantern of her lamp hang off the guard of his own sword driven deep into the soft ground and positioned the King's wounded leg across his lap. He unstoppered his canteen again and offered it to Fandis, who cleaned her hands as best she could and, humming softly, started to unwrap the soiled dressing from around the shaft.

"The knife," she said holding out her hand and Sandir passed her the required tool, which she used to quickly cut off cloth from around the wound. "Pass me that smaller one, and prepare sharpies. The moment I remove the arrow, press on the wound with all your strength."

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Fandis made two short incisions. To the horror of them all, the King let out a piercing cry and tried to move away from the source of his pain. Shocked, Astoron looked to Lord Edrahil, who, equally dumbfounded, looked back to him.

But Fandis' training must have kicked in fully, for she ordered sharply, "Hold him down, I must retrieve this arrow now!" and slipped her fingers into the now rapidly bleeding wound.

The King thrashed in their hold and cried loudly, and Astoron thought the Steward's jaw might snap from clenching. Then, just as Fandis murmured, "Got it," the thrashing stopped and he went limp again beneath their restraining hands.

"Now!" commanded Fandis, swiftly pulling out the arrowhead and Sandir sprang with a bundle of cloth and pressed hard. But all too soon, the whiteness turned a sinisterly-black red. "Hold on," Fandis said and, applying a fresh dressing over the old one, added her own weight to Sandir's.

All this time, Lord Edrahil was stroking the King's hair, head bent, and murmuring softly in Quenya, and Astoron thought he caught the words hold on, better, and Findaráto.

But then, he was distracted from his observations by a Song he had already heard that day, a Song of closing, and mending, and healing, sang in a half-desperate, half-defiant voice of Fandis. To his utter surprise, after a few bars, Sandir joined in, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence.

They repeated the Song three times, both turning grey beneath all the grime, and Fandis broke off. "How come you know this?" she asked with disbelief, then, all impassioned, "Pass me athelas and prepare a clean dressing,[iv]" and back in what he assumed was her natural tone, "Oh, I'm Fandis by the way."

"Sandir." He gave her two long, silvery leaves, which she crushed in her bloodstained fingers and shoved into the wound, which, unlike Astoron's own, was still bleeding slightly. "Eredhnis…that is er, my sister… taught me the words when my parents let me go to the capital… but it's never worked for me."

"Now it did, I felt I could draw from your strength." Fandis extended her hand and he put in it a thick padding, which she placed over the herb. "It's still sloppy work"–and indeed, he could see beads of blood welling up–"but at least it's something." Despite her eyes being drawn to Sandir's, she bandaged the leg calmly and expediently. At last, she stood up, swaying a little but all business-like again. "This is all I can do for now. My Lord Steward, somebody must observe His Majesty all the time and call me at once if anything changes." She gathered her supplies, as well as Astoron's half-empty canteen. "I must see to others. Sandir, come with me, I shall check your arm."

With that, the two youngsters retreated and Astoron was left alone with the Steward.

Captain Astoron offered to help him in the difficult process of pulling the hauberk off Finrod's limp form, but Edrahil spotted the man's slowing movements. He was suddenly reminded that his companion had taken a spear to his side and even though his mail deflected most of the blow's strength and Mistress Fandis had obviously done a very good job of staunching the bleeding, he had to be in tremendous pain, especially now that the excitement of immediate danger was fading. Feeling slightly guilty, Edrahil thanked him heartily and urged him to rest. He then performed the task on his own, as gently as he could, and settled again to his vigil.

Finrod's eyes fluttered, blinking in confusion. Edrahil smiled tightly, trying to project the calm he did not feel himself, but Finrod seemed not to know him and then, with a strangled noise he jerked upwards, becoming violently ill. Edrahil helped him turn to his uninjured side and held him tightly, putting an arm across his chest. Their last meal having been hours before, Finrod's spasmodic retching resulted only in throwing up a bile. At last, it ceased and he hung his head, panting. Edrahil helped him lie down, smoothing his hair away from where they stuck to his face and, looking around, espied Finrod's own canteen set aside together with his mail and belt. He stretched out for it, shook – luckily, still half full – and brought it to Finrod's parched lips. "Slowly now," he admonished, and Finrod rinsed his mouth before obediently taking a few careful sips.

"Thank you, otornya," he breathed, setting his head back into Edrahil's lap and closing his eyes. Whatever Mistress Fandis had given him must still have been working, for soon he dozed, his features relaxed. Giddy with relief, Edrahil bent and kissed first the tangled hair, then the pale brow.

But the peace did not last, Finrod quickly became restless, tossing and moaning, and Edrahil called for Mistress Fandis to dose him again with pain-relieving herbs.

"I am sorry, my lord," the healer said, fighting to stay upright despite her obvious exhaustion. "I have none left."

Just then another pitiful whimper escaped Finrod's lips and Fandis was immediately kneeling beside him, her fatigue pushed aside in a valiant attempt to alleviate suffering. Her voice rose in a Song… and she swayed and would have collapsed to the ground had Edrahil not supported her. "Just… a moment…" she mumbled and was asleep this very instant, pillowing her head upon a grassy clomp.

After the day's fires and exertions, the night grew bitterly cold, its silence, ringing in Edrahil's ears, broken only by an occasional splash of water in the river and clink of metal as the guards shifted positions, and whimpers, moans and cries of their wounded. He could make out several silhouettes bending over the prone forms of their comrades even as he gathered Finrod into his arms in an attempt to give him both comfort and warmth, babbling soothing nonsense and singing in a hushed voice the happy songs of Eldamar, until Finrod seemed to calm a little. Hoping it was not his fancy, for he did not posses Fandis' gift of healing nor Finrod's ability to wove visions, Edrahil continued, knowing his music to be beautiful, until his throat went completely hoarse.

NOTES

[i] Q. sandastan, S. thangail is a shield-wall, a defensive formation used by Isildur's army surrounded in the Gladden Fields. I took the liberty of ascribing its origins to First-Age Elves, supported in my decision by the fact that Barahir's men are described as having made a wall of spears about Finrod (The Silm.),which to me could as well describe the real-world formations by which Tolkien was probably inspired, such as the Anglo-Saxon shield wall depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry. (Cf. The Disaster of the Gladden Fields, UT).

[ii] I know Finrod had his own device, the harp and flaming torch, but seeing that it is so unusual for an Elven crest, I rationalized it must have been devised only in Beleriand and before (as well as after) that he used his father's device, being effectively the head of the third house in exile. (And the fact that it also helps to find an in-universe explanation for the confusion of Finrod's and Finarfin's names within the source texts only makes me like this idea more).

[iii] S. dírnaith, Q. nernehta is an offensive wedge-shaped formation were are told Isildur couldn't employ in the Gladden Fields. It was used for launching over a short distance against a yet not arrayed enemy and relied on the Númenóreans' superior height and strength. As with sandastan/thangail I took the liberty of ascribing its origins to the First Age, and decided that although Isildur decided against employing it, it could be perhaps used in a desperate attempt to cut through and free from the enemy. (Cf. The Disaster of the Gladden Fields, UT).

[iv] The usage of a Song of Power to staunch bleeding and athelas as an additional medicine is based off LL, Canto X where Lúthien and Huan treat Beren's shot shoulder/chest. It is there said to be a Sindarin idea.