Tag: Thû

–Werewolves, weregild, wizards, and weaponized ballads! 

I intended to post this on Halloween but circumstances did not permit. This is the first chapter of an ongoing work, intended to be more of a retelling of my absolute favorite scene in the Lay of Leithian (possibly my favorite scene in the whole legendarium), and can be read as a stand-alone work if you’re not into all that shipping business 🙂 Enjoy!   ~Wes

Chapter Rating: General 

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“Pardon us, good wolf,“ said the Orc captain Dungalef, with a dip of his head; "we did not hear your approach.” 

“Neither did we hear you, slinking about like cats in the dark,” said the wolf, its too-long paws twitching finger-like above the loam. “There are too few of you for a raiding party, too many for scouts. And you stink of elves.”

“Likely we do. We slew many between the Guarded Plain and here,” answered another Orc, Nereb.

“Yet I scent caves and rivers, and Orc blood besides,” said another wolf, circling behind him. 

“I bet they hid in a hole while their patrol was killed,” said a third, its laughing bark taken up by the rest of the pack.

“What is it to you?” Nereb’s snapped, “we owe nothing to dogs!”  Dungalef stomped discreetly on Nereb’s foot before he could say more.

The grey-backed wolf who’d spoken first sneezed and shook its damp coat from tip to tail; a canine shrug.

“Only curious. You must have pissed on a rug somewhere or another, or you wouldn’t be trying to creep past the fort without reporting in, as you should.”

“We only wished to rejoin our company before making report; the forest disoriented us,” said the leader Dungalef, while behind him his companions were beginning to be herded like sheep, nipping jaws angling them slowly but surely away from the cover of the pines.

The wolf looked him up and down warily, sniffing. “You’re very polite for a sneak and a liar,” it remarked. “That might save you a few lashes later on. The boss likes manners.”

With that it loped down the muddy bank towards the marsh and river, where Tol Sirion’s stone bridge hunched bleak in the moonlight.

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Finrod worried he was beginning to feel and smell as much like an Orc as he looked like one. His scalp itched and sweated under a pelt of greasy hair, his ill-fitting boots sloshed with swamp water while duckweed and mud splattered up to his knees, the whine of mosquitoes in his ears set his teeth on edge. He hoped this irritation would lend credence to his disguise.

It was sometime around midnight when the wolves of Gorthaur led their captives over the sluggish river Sirion, its black waters running torpid with hardly a current to disturb the cattails and reeds.

Night had fallen early in the vale, the skies chill and windblown as they passed through the bottleneck of the mountains. Now as the sun set, fog rose from the riverbanks and sat heavy on the islet; murky, green-grey clouds painted over the sky, shrouding all but a sliver of moonlight. The darkness itself should have posed no threat to an elf, but here by the bridge, Finrod found that his eyes refused to adjust to the gloom.

A dreadful thought occurred to him then that if in this gloom he could not see the stars, perhaps the stars could no longer see him, and Finrod felt suddenly very alone.  

Their party crossed at last over the bridge to the gatehouse, and as their boots struck stone the wolves beside them began to howl, deeper and more horrifying than any natural beast. A chorus of howls greeted them in return from beyond the moat, echoing throughout the valley like the wails of ghosts.

Beren looked about furtively for guards, for to him it seemed that the lonely gatehouse stood abandoned and hollow— but Finrod and his retinue shuddered as they passed under the shadow of the archway, and none of them would raise their eyes.

With no visible attendant manning the wheel, the portcullis (once a beautiful wrought grate of trellised flowers, now mangled from siege) raised to grant them entry. As the chain rattled and creaked, Finrod swallowed, his heart in his throat.

Beyond, the castle loomed with empty eye-sockets, no warm or homely lights shining within; what lived there now took no comfort in light, and did not need it.

How unlovely all his designs had became… Serpent shapes (once wreath-crowned and shining bronze) dripped from every sconce and ornament, their leering mouths mocking him as he passed. What had possessed him to choose snakes for his sigil all those years ago? What a mistake that had been.  

The siege of Minas Tirith, unsuccessful for so many years, had taken its toll on the castle and its fortifications; the forces that had finally wrested it from Orodreth in the end had not, it seemed, had the resources to rebuild it. But the creatures that now inhabited it did not seem to mind; a small cyclone of bats whistled and clattered above the parapets, spiraling out of towers that lay cracked open and unroofed in the night air. Wolf-like creatures with hunching backs gnawed bones in the courtyard, snapping at one another with growls that swelled like thunder as they passed. Orcs marched to and from their patrols, paying the captives no mind; some busied themselves with weapons, others butchering carcasses for the mess hall, the stained wrecks of dining tables scored cruelly from cleavers and carving knives. Vermin raced round the discarded offal, unheeded.

There were others too within the fortress, Finrod realized with growing horror as he counted them– humans, mostly, and some elves, who had served Orodreth but not escaped with him. They sat hunkered in chains, awaiting use, or scurried meekly past to tend the castle and all its cellars, mills, and kitchens. Eyes hopeless with fear, they carried out their duties in irons, a skeleton crew doing the work of hundreds.

Finrod turned away and carefully slowed his breathing; the emotions that welled up in him would betray the whole mission if they spilled over.

“…We may help them yet, if our disguises hold,” whispered Beren, nudging his shoulder. “Orcs are simple; we will keep our story simple too. The rest of you lay low, and silent if you can,”

Beren glanced down the line, and the elves in tow gave subtle signs of confirmation. “The enemy has no reason to suspect subterfuge. Stay calm, we’ll make it through.”

The confidence in Beren’s voice was familiar, the same reassuring courage Finrod remembered in Barahir, long ago on a battlefield he thought he’d die on. For the hundredth time that journey, he was reminded why he did not regret fulfilling his promise to Barahir’s heir.

The band passed the rest of the courtyard in grim silence, their footfalls drowned by the hideous chuckling of wargs. Everywhere, the yellow eyes of monsters followed them– and one pair, felt rather than seen, weighed on Finrod like an oppressive heat. He felt it watching from above, its presence making him both sweat and shiver.

Like criminals being led to the scaffold they were brought into the main hall for judgement, a gauntlet of snarling muzzles harrying them towards the throne itself. There the wolf-guard dispersed, but they did not go far; the beasts surrounded them now, creeping in from outside, seeming to manifest from the walls themselves.

Unable to repress himself, Finrod shuddered. The steps leading up to the dais were stained dark, the carpet torn; the throne’s carved leaves were gold and silver no longer, but splintered wood; as if to cover any sign of its former beauty, the seat had been draped with warg pelts, their claws still attached. Bones of every size and description littered the perimeter of the room, the detritus of many unwholesome feasts.

At once, the heat Finrod had felt in the courtyard doubled– even as the rest of the castle fought a losing battle against mildew, the throne chamber was suddenly dry as ash. Shadows stretched like rising water, so thick he could almost touch them… Only Beren did not seem hindered by the heat or darkness.

The elves stood in phalanx, rigid and panic-stricken despite their disguises, the air swarming with shadow and silent save for the echoes caught in the vaulted ceiling. Velvet paws padded over stone and ruined tapestry as the wolves sprawled or seated themselves around the chamber, red tongues panting and their ears pricked forward. Expectant. Waiting.

The throne, which had been empty, was now suddenly and inexplicably occupied.  

“…Generally, orcs caught deserting are executed when found, so I will assume you are reporting in to me late, which is merely punishable by flogging,” said a voice, deep and resonant as a tolling bell.

“Tell me: what makes the Orcs of Bauglir flinch from answering my summons? What has kept you? And where have you been?”

The weight of the speaker’s attention was suffocating, withering Finrod’s tongue to parchment as he tried to speak; his mouth opened silently and trembled, but no sound emerged.

Then:

“ —In Elfinesse, my lord! ” Beren was suddenly at his elbow, clearing his throat with a theatrical amount of phlegm. “We were… waylaid. By foes.”

Finrod expelled his breath, swept with an unbearable desire to grasp Beren’s hand and squeeze it. He settled for blessing his friend silently, a little of the dread lifting.

“Elfinesse describes all the territory south of Anfauglith,“ droned the voice. It had no face that could be seen yet, but its posture indicated boredom, one leg crossed and bouncing languidly.

" Where in Elfinesse–  soldier…?” The figure waved a lazy circle, waiting for someone to supply the end of the sentence.

“I am Dungalef, my lord. This is Nereb, and these our spearmen. Far down the Narog and into Beleriand we were,” Finrod answered, emboldened by Beren’s lead. “We cut a swath of fire and blood! Widows weep and crows fly, where our tracks lie. Thirty we slew before crossing the marshes. We tossed their bodies in a pit, for the vultures to pick.”

…Was that too much?  Do Orcs wax lyrical when recounting their gruesome deeds? It was not information he ever thought he’d need.

“Just the twelve of you against thirty?” the voice seemed amused. “Exceptional, if true. And what news do you bring from beyond the river? What befalls in Nargothrond, if you strayed so far?” Then the enthroned figure seemed to contemplate for a moment, for its ceased tapping the air with its foot. “…Remind me, who it is who rules there now?”

“King Felagund rules there,” said Felagund, biting his cheek. "But we came only to its borders. We dared no further.”

From the shadows he heard the cluck of a tongue. “Ah, Felagund! That was he… And yet, I recall now that it is Celegorm, son of Fëanor, who took the crown from him only recently. Perhaps you hadn’t heard.”

“Not so. It is Orodreth who—“ Finrod began, then stumbled. At his side, ‘Nereb’ shot him a suffering look.

He knew the voice had baited him with misinformation; to agree with the falsehood, he thought, would have looked incriminatingly ignorant, but too late he realized that the trap had been beneath the other foot.

“—would be lord there now. That is, if Finrod Felagund is no longer king. I suspect Fëanor’s sons have little claim to that realm… at least, from what I’ve heard.” He cleared his throat.

A short pause, then gentle, baritone laughter echoed in the darkened hall. The figure seated on the throne uncrossed its legs with a rattle of armor and stood, unfolding to its full, uncomfortable height before descending the shallow steps.

As the sorcerer Thû– Morgoth’s thane, Gorthaur the Cruel– drew nearer, the pricked ears of every wolf turned in unison, trained on their master’s steps.

“…Interesting,” said Thû, folding his hands neatly behind his back.  “You’ve done an impressive job of keeping abreast Nargothrond’s court politics, for one who only brushed against its border… News must travel faster in the field.”

This he addressed to ‘Dungalef’ directly, smiling a sharp, undistracted smile.

His chest was broad, his hair was dark, his fangs and beard were pointed. Finrod could not bring himself to meet his eyes, but he glimpsed that their irises were yellow as a dog’s, set against a blood-dark field. He felt their scrutiny hot on his face, and he wondered, suddenly, if all his disguises were not as transparent as glass…

Then Thû broke away, striding into the company’s midst with the aloof air of a general inspecting his troops.

“I do not recognize you from my ranks. Who is your captain? I don’t believe you said.”

Beren glanced up, wetting his lips as he hunted for something to say, but Finrod’s memory worked quicker, recalled shreds of overheard conversation between the Orcs they’d slaughtered to gain their costumes.  

“Boldog is our captain, sir. Our orders were to rejoin him in the North with all haste; were it not for them, and our enemies hindering us, we would have made our report to you much sooner.“  

Thû nodded, idly rolling the nearest spearman’s pike between his thumb and finger, its metal dart twirling in place.

“Boldog… yes, a fine soldier, a good captain— was , a good captain,” he added, absently,  “but he was stationed at the borders of Doriath, to the east. Strange, that you should still be marching with haste, though he has been dead for these past three months.”

Finrod swallowed. "Forgive us. We had not heard. Our business was not in Doriath; no news came from there of his demise.”  

Please, ask us not of Doriath. Let him know nothing of this quest…

Thû turned with a look of mild surprise. “No? But you were in Boldog’s train… surely you have at least heard tell of the elf maid Luthien?”

Beside him, Finrod heard his companion draw a sharp breath, and inwardly he swore.

“Luthien, Luthien…” continued Thû rather whimsically, “daughter of the witch Melian and her puppet king… A pretty little thing she is, I’ve heard; soft as the ripe fruit of Telperion, fair as the full moon, waiting to be plucked” he smiled, and Beren’s jaw clenched.

“The Mighty Arising thought she would make a delectable addition to his horde; he sent Boldog to fetch her, but Boldog was slain at the border with all his retinue. How lucky you were not there…” The sorcerer chuckled and placed a heavy hand on Beren’s shoulder, “Why, Nereb, you’re looking pale! Whatever is the matter?”  

Already the ash-grey of Orc flesh, Beren blanched stark white as he stared ahead unblinking, pupils blown wide and black. Finrod silently willed his friend calmness, though he felt his own hope gutter and fail.  

He knew. He knew from the beginning.

“You’ve all gone so quiet!” Thû pressed his hands together in mock concern, his great frame suddenly between them, blocking the line of sight. “You ought to be excited! Come now, rejoice! Renew your vigor! Repeat your vows!” He clapped two spearmen on the back with forceful encouragement that sent them staggering forward a step. “Whom do we serve? Come, good Uruks, say it with me! The maker of mightiest works, the giver of gold, the master of Arda – he who throws back the chains of the greedy gods!”

His gauntleted fist raised as the wolves circling the chamber barked and howled in excitement, their huge grey bodies closing off all paths of retreat.

We were never going to leave here without a fight.

“Don’t stand so grim and joyless— Death to the law and light of the Valar! Death to the tyranny of Heaven! Let the children of Eru wither in flame, and everlasting darkness drown Manwe, Varda, and the sun! What say you?” Thû bared his teeth mercilessly at Beren, beckoning a reply.

Beren stood for a moment, his mouth set hard and grim. Then he raised his eyes.

“I say… that the Orcs of Bauglir need not answer to his lapdog,” he said darkly, “and we will take our leave now, whether he wills it or no.”

Thû tipped back his great dark head and laughed, delighted.

“Ah, Nereb! Patience– You have no idea how dull it is in this dreary place; how bored I’ve gotten manning this moldering castle in a swamp…“ The sorcerer swept back his wolf-hame cape and bowed, his tone almost sincere. "I cannot thank you enough, my dear ‘Orcs’, for the distraction. I have a Song for you, before you go.”

Finrod tensed at once, hearing the first notes of spellsong rise reverberating in the hollow chamber, swelling around them as the Thû began to chant; not one note but many, his single voice a choir that harmonized and amplified itself.

But before the wave of the first note could touch Beren and his party, Finrod was there between them and the tide, wrists held aloft and his cloak dropping as he sang a hard, clear note of defiance. The wave broke against him, a rock sheltering his companions from the storm.

Wolves snarled and licked their teeth in frustration, their furious jaws snapping just short of the barrier the Elf lord wove. Thû’s face darkened– he had not expected resistance. As they watched, smoke began to rise from the sorcerer’s skin, pouring from his glowing mouth. The walls of the ruined chamber grew red as the inside of a furnace, lit with unseen fire as his voice crested to a deafening drone as if a thousand voices were singing in unison. Each note Thû sang was fathoms deep, forged in the heart of a mountain; they made bones shake, and teeth chatter.

Finrod’s spellsong glowed around the twelve companions. His tenor song was bright and clear and cold, powerful as a stream swollen with snowmelt, breaking through the thunderous notes that rose to drown them. He did not waste energy thinking about the futility of fighting a Maia, a spirit whose voice had been part of the First Music itself. There was only the dark, and circle that stood as a bulwark between it and his friends.

Thû watched him from beyond the barrier and began to pace, his eyes aglow with predatory intent. The pacing was calculated, Finrod realized– it forced him to turn, his shield being most effective when it faced head-on, and moving was a distraction.

While Finrod pivoted to keep his enemy in view, thick ropes of darkness unspooled from the smoke, grasping, seeking entry, prying at any weakness. They curled around his golden bubble, mirroring the intent of Thû’s voice and the gestures of his gauntleted hands as his fingers closed into a hard fist. The noose tightened, huge black coils straining to crush them.

But Finrod did not yield; the harder the shadow squeezed, the tighter and denser his defenses became, until the tendrils broke. His clarion voice rang clear and steady, and the circle held.

Making no headway, Thû broke off his Song for the space of a breath and shook his head. "Well met,” he conceded, a faint smile on his lips. Until then, there had been no words to the sorcerer’s Song, unless they were long, slow words in a tongue unknown to Elves- but when his Song began anew, it was in a language Finrod recognized. Images wove into the spell, making it take shape in his mind.

What had felt to Finrod like the pressure of a constricting serpent around his shield now changed to a hail of piercing arrows, each hard sting chipping away at his resolve. His defenses began yielding to notes of desperation, every parry met with a stronger riposte:

He sang a stronghold with his heart, a fortress carved in a safe stone breast– but Thû sang of weakness and rot, foundations succumbing, and his walls collapsed as if built on sand.

He sang of the free wood, the wild hart running, leaping over fence and wall– but wolves pursued it and ran it down, slender legs crippled and its tawny throat torn.

He sang of water, clear and bright, coursing down from cold mountains, unstoppable and pure– but ice seized it fast, its waves crystalizing into fragile sculptures in the grip of a sudden frost.

He sang of the leveret, dancing free of a snare– a cat pounced, its gold eyes laughing.

He sang of chains snapping, bars breaking, shackles falling. Thû sang of a pit, a stair that had no end, an iron honeycomb of cells.

He sang of oaths kept, promises honored. Thû sang of Doom binding, of gates closing.

He sang of silver shores. Thû sang of bloody sand, red stains on the skirt of the tide.

He sang of ships. Thû sang of fire.

Aloft, Finrod’s hands were clenched in a rictus, his breath fluttering small in his chest. There was no way forward. He felt the brittle wall of his shield cracking– it would shatter soon. He thought of what would happen if their mission was discovered, drew a deep breath, and let his music soften, yielding:

Now the deer peeled off from its herd, inviting death for the sake of their freedom. 

The castle opened, its gates closing behind the invader.

The ice was thawed by a dying fire.

Yarn unravelling distracted the cat.

The prison key was pocketed, teased away from its ring by nimble fingers.

He watched the curve of his spell bow inwards, elastic, as each opposing word struck it like a hammer against a chisel. The golden shield encased the enemy’s dart with its last, shaking note, and then–

The blunt force of a battering ram struck Finrod’s chest, taking his voice and his breath with it.

He tasted blood, and felt a stinging wetness in his ears. He could hear a single, dull pitch inside his head, and nothing else. Briefly, he saw the triumphant smile on Thû’s lips before the floor tilted under his feet. The world spun, then dropped away completely.

Beren gave a shout of horror as he watched his friend topple, his knees striking the floor as gold hair spilled in a wave over his face, all his spells undone.

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The great hall of Nargothrond echoed gently with the sardonic applause of a single pair of gloved hands. 

“Very brave. Very commendable. Yes, noble are you who wish to push back the evil that has settled in the north of the realm.” Curufin’s tone implied the very opposite as he paced deliberately before the court.  

“Please, tell me: how many of you good lords and soldiers have ever been north of the Sirion? How many of you, who are here now, fought in the Dagor Bragollach? A handful? None?”

Beside him with crossed arms, Celegorm smirked.

“I know it could not have been many, for I see a great number of you here before me. And those who fought– nobly, bravely, commendably– in the North did not return. Not even their bodies.”

Grim silence met his words, and many unfriendly eyes flashed in warning, but more still looked on with fear, and worry.  

“You do not know what Morgoth has bred to kill you. The Orcs and a few stray wolves, you have met and slain, but they are the least,” he paused, “the least of his servants, and they are more numerous than flies at the gates of the Sirion. You have never seen the dead rise. You have never seen your loved ones’ faces worn by an enemy in the mist. You have not met the things that walk in silence, night after night, just outside the shadows of your fire; the things that will take you in your sleep, without a sound, without a trace, and leave something else where you slept, wearing your skin.”

“I’ve seen horses torn in two by Gorthaur’s wolves. They’re big as bears, and they speak with the voices of men,” Celegorm winked. “When they howl it sounds like the wind blowing through an empty cave. You can feel it in your breastbone.”

“So when you say you wish to ride with your king to war against Tol Sirion–”

“Against the blood-drinkers and werewolves of Angband–”

“Know that you are riding to meet an enemy that Orodreth himself could not withstand, even within the tower that held under siege for two years against Morgoth’s forces. The sorcerer who took it from him did so in one night. What did it feel like, my lord?”  

Curufin’s grey eyes locked with his royal cousin’s. “What did you see that night, when Tol Sirion fell? Numberless armies? The great Wyrm? Morgoth himself?”

“No,” Orodreth answered, his voice quiet, though the silent court heard the shame in his voice clearly, "just the eyes in the forest, and a rider in black, wearing a horned helm and a mask like… some foul, grinning thing,” he swallowed.    

“And?” continued Curufin, relentless.

“He Sang,” Orodreth finished, his cheeks white. “He Sang, and we ran into the river, like rats fleeing fire.”

Curufin nodded, saying nothing of the tears he saw on his fair cousin’s lashes, and turned back to the crowd. But first he glanced at Finrod, a bent smile on his lips;

 “Tol Sirion is lost. Nargothrond is not. You have leagues of hills and a maze of unbridged rivers to protect you, miles of hidden caves to hide you. Morgoth cannot break you if he cannot find you. Ride to battle against him, and the secret is out. Is this Man, this Aftercomer and his doomed, sacrilegious quest, worth all your deaths? What do you–” he addressed the crowd, “owe him? Or did his father Barahir save you ALL from disaster in the field?”

“They owe him the life of their king,” said Finrod, cutting over the growing murmur, “who, for the time being, still reigns in Nargothrond, and to whom they still owe allegiance.”

Celegorm’s handsome face soured in a scowl, and he looked about to speak, but his brother’s hand raised languidly against his chest to quiet him. “Of course they do. If that king is still in possession of his senses, and their best interests.”

“He is at the very least still in possession of his honor,” Finrod’s eyes narrowed as he stood from the throne, looking in disappointment at the lords who thronged before him, restless, questioning, and afraid. His fingers twisted for a moment in frustration at his side, before he set his lips and exhaled a long, tired breath. “…My lordly cousins, you would be the first to say that an oath is an oath, regardless of convenience or of price, would you not? Yours is not the only oath that matters in the eyes of Elbereth.”

Finrod stepped from the dais of carved limestone and into the crowd, his subjects parting around him without meeting his eyes.

“My people may no longer wish to honor their pledge to their king, but I will not forget mine to my friends,” and so saying, he lifted the gold and silver circlet from his brow, and let it drop from his fingers with deliberate steadiness at the Fëanorians’ feet, holding Curufin’s gaze as he did so.

“Pick it up, if you think it fits.”

“It will, if you but hand it to me.” said Curufin, smiling.

“Only when your head shrinks, cousin.”     

A head of dark silver bent between them, and Edrahil, captain of the guard, knelt and retrieved the fallen crown.

“King Felagund,” he bowed, holding out the circlet steadily, “please… do not so readily give us over to those whose scheming would betray you. You are not alone as you may think.”

Finrod blinked, hesitating for a moment with his heart in his mouth before taking the discarded crown from his captain’s hands. “Thank you, my friend. You are right. Anger made me act without wisdom. There is another who ought take this in my stead.”

Returning to the dais and the pale figure sitting beside the throne, Finrod placed the crown on Orodreth’s head with a kiss. 

“Ingoldo?” Orodreth’s eyes were still glassy and distant as his brother pulled him tight to his chest.

 Dark and quiet as the promise of a storm Curufin turned his back on the king and left the court with his brother in tow. Their victory was partial, but accomplished. Finrod let them go without comment.  

“Do this for me, Artaresto. I know you are capable of keeping them safe until I return– from enemies without and within,” he whispered.

“Until you return,” he nodded.

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