#also me writing any fic abt finrod: how can I make this secretly abt bëor

[actual-bill-potts]

I’ll second that Finrod’s hunting trip with Maedhros and Maglor ficlet ask, if that one resonated at all with you (if it didn’t, please just disregard this haha). I’d be really curious to see what you did with that!

Many thanks to you and @melestasflight for the wonderful prompt! This fic fought me every step of the way, but I'm at least reasonably happy with it, so I'm just going to go ahead and post it. I hope you enjoy!!

By the time he reached Himring, Finrod was weary to his bones.

He had set out from Nargothrond to visit Doriath; since being allowed back beyond the threshold of the fenced realm, he had made the journey as often as he could spare the time. He yet had hope that Thingol and his Queen could be softened towards the rest of the Noldor, and in any case his sister and her betrothed dwelt there, and he missed her company and wisdom dearly. 

Often Finrod found nothing but peace and joy in the court of Doriath, for despite his grudge against the Noldor Thingol was kind and wise in the ways of the forest, Melian was generous with counsel and teaching, and their daughter Lúthien - now nearly full-grown - loved to hear about Nargothrond, and told him in return many merry stories of her latest escapades. 

But this visit had brought dark tidings, and with it concern for his cousins in the North. It seemed that strange creatures had been sighted north and east of Doriath, and that some had managed to make it nearly past the Girdle by some yet-unknown sorcery. None knew what type of beast they were, exactly, only that several of the outermost marchwardens had been found with their throats torn out, and survivors with little memory of the events besides shining green eyes and a sense of dread. 

"I recalled all of my guards immediately further within the Girdle, of course," Thingol had said, "for my lady wife assured me that nothing has passed fully through, and that they cannot match her power."

Finrod had made a bow towards Melian, but then said, "my King, would it not be worthwhile to take a company out beyond the Girdle, and hunt down these things? I myself would be more than happy to assist or even to lead the effort, if it would be of use - those beyond your borders may not yet be aware of the threat -"

Thingol’s face had darkened. "You will not lead any of the Sindar into danger!" he had snapped, before softening his tone. "You are valiant, nephew, and I do not fault your softness of heart - but beyond our realm are those who slaughtered my kin and burned the works of their hands. I will not spend the lives of my people in defense of such, when without loss we may remain in safety here. I advise you to do the same, until the danger is passed," he had added; but Finrod had refused as politely as he could, and left that day to ride to Himlad. 

He was sick at heart, for if the knowledge of such danger to the Noldor who dwelt by his borders would not move Thingol, what would? He was reminded forcibly of the tensions of his childhood: Vanya in face, Noldo in body, followed by whispers no matter where he went; expected to laugh at Noldor gaudiness in Alqualondë and Telerin flightiness in Tirion. This was the same, but deadly serious, and he did not know how to resolve it; he had not been able to gracefully walk that line even in Aman, and now so many lives rode on his ability to do so here. Even Galadriel was no help, for she had thoroughly repudiated her Fëanorian cousins and advised him to do the same. She had been born late, long after everyone but the twins, and so did not have many memories to set against the terrible sight of blood on sand and distant flame. She had not grown up with Maglor as a merry third in her games; she had not gone running to Maedhros for advice or comfort; she had never seen the expression of mingled joy and desolation upon Finwë’s face when he looked at Celegorm, the child who in face and body was Míriel come to life. 

Pursued by such dark thoughts, Finrod had made his way quickly to Himlad, where he found Celegorm and Curufin away at Amon Ereb. He had warned their seneschal of the tidings from Doriath, and without stopping had gone on to Himring. After all, if anyone would have an idea as to the identity of Morgoth’s new creatures, it would be Maedhros.

Now Finrod sat in the great keep of Himring with Maedhros and Maglor - who was, apparently, visiting; so social, the Fëanorians! - weary and heartsick.

"These are ill tidings, Cousin," Maglor said at last, "and we will arrange a hunt for these beasts as soon as we may. The power to nearly breach the Girdle: that is alarming indeed. For now, though, you should rest and eat. I’m sure Maedhros has a room prepared for you already; we sighted you several hours ago - Maedhros?"

Maedhros’ face was set, and his eyes were flaming. "Eyes of emerald, and terrible teeth…I know these beasts of yours, Cousin. They are nauror: gaurhothrim, it would be in Sindarin." He turned to Finrod, and Finrod nearly shrank back, so terrible was his expression. "He - Sauron - took fëar and forced them into the bodies of great starving wolves, with green eyes that screamed without sound. They had the power of untethered spirits, though they were bound to such terrible forms, and they could do - things -" he broke off, breathing heavily.

Maglor’s face was pale, but he asked, "Why then have we not encountered them long since?"

Maedhros laughed. It was not a happy sound. "They died, over and over. Fëar cannot escape Angband; but they revolted against their forms so wholly that the wolf-shapes were rent asunder, and the spirit left in tatters. Hardly useful. Sauron used to -" he pressed his lips together and did not continue.

"Then - these creatures are Eldar," Finrod said faintly.

"Aye. But slaying them will be no evil, if I am right," Maedhros said. "Death is the kindest gift in our power to offer."

He stood. "But my brother was right, earlier," he said, and it seemed that the great flame in his eyes was banked as he turned again to Finrod. The granite lines of his face softened near-imperceptibly. "You are weary, and I have had a room prepared. Go rest. You are welcome to join us in the great hall for dinner, or to send for a meal to your room, whichever seems best to you. I will leave at first light with my brother and a company of warriors. I advise you to delay your departure until our return, but if you must go, tell me and I will arrange for an escort."

"No - I wish to come with you!" Finrod protested. "I would not have my cousins ride into danger without me."

"Thingol’s reaction, should the King of Nargothrond fall in our company, does not bear thinking about," Maedhros said wryly. "It would not be wise."

Finrod set his jaw. "I can help," he said, and found he meant it. The thought of a spirit tethered so cruelly smote his heart. "I have learned much of songcraft from Melian the Maia: songs that can counter the necromancy of Sauron. Perhaps I can - at least ease the passing of these creatures."

"I sing, also," Maglor observed with a trace of humor, "and have faced the fruits of Sauron’s labors before, if in lesser bodies."

"Two voices will be better than one, surely," Finrod countered. He looked at Maedhros. "Please, allow me to accompany you."

Maedhros looked at him for a long moment. "Very well, Cousin," he said at last, "if only because I suspect it would be difficult to prevent you from following. You have the kindest heart of us all, I deem; and perhaps you will be able to do these nauror some mercy. I do not have it in me. We leave at dawn; be ready."

"If you find yourself too weary, do not come!" Maglor added. His sharp face was full of concern. "None will hold it against you."

"Thank you," Finrod said. He smiled at his cousins. "I will not let you down."

The next morning, refreshed in body if troubled in mind, Finrod rose before dawn and was ready in the courtyard when Maedhros and Maglor emerged. They were in light armor and leathers, as he was; and they were followed by a dozen grim-faced Elves. 

Maedhros nodded at him; Maglor said, "Good morning!" and even offered a smile.

Finrod smiled back.

"I have procured a horse for you," Maglor said, gesturing to a beautiful roan he held beside the one he rode. "Your own horse needed more than a night of rest."

"Aye," Finrod agreed. "I thank you." He approached and stroked the mare’s nose. She whickered a greeting in return, and nosed his hair. "What is her name?"

"She is called Hirfindë," Maglor replied, laughing a little, "for as a filly she had a terrible habit of chewing on one’s tresses, no matter how tightly plaited."

Finrod looked down in some alarm; but Hirfindë was only sniffing, not chewing. "You have grown out of that habit, I trust?" he said aloud to her in amusement.

She whuffed, as if to say, of course.

There was a general rush of mounting and a flurry of orders from Maedhros; then the company passed through the great gate of Himring, going south and west towards Doriath.

The first day passed without event; Finrod strained all of his senses, but could not detect even a trace of the wrongness that signaled creations of their Enemy. By their expressions of frustration, Maedhros and Maglor did not have better luck. They did not stop that night, picking their way softly by the light of the stars; and by late afternoon of the second day they picked up a trail. The horses became nervous, shying at nothing; and sharp-eyed Maglor spotted the faint outline of a paw in the grass. But even without those signs, Finrod would have known that the creature was near. Despair was in the air. It was so thick he could nearly taste it, and had to set his will to prevent dark dreams from flashing before his waking eyes. I am sorry, he thought sadly to the creature, we will release you, if we can.

But despite the miasma that could be sensed by everyone in the party, the nauro - or nauror, Finrod supposed - proved elusive. The second day and night passed without success. Maedhros rode stone-faced at the head of their party, responding to Maglor’s tentative conversational sallies in monosyllables at best; Finrod tried to engage the rest of their party in conversation, but the other Elves were quiet and withdrawn, and in truth he himself found that talking sapped his energy more than he was accustomed to. The air felt heavy and filthy in his lungs.

But on the third day, they ran the creature to ground.

Maedhros was the first to spot it, of course: as the horizon faded from gold to blue at the start of the day, he sat forward suddenly and said: "There."

Finrod followed his gaze and caught the barest flash of grey bristle between trees.

"It will flee from us, I expect," Maedhros said, signaling for speed, "Its self-preservation instincts will be strong. We must run it to ground."

As he leaned forward to keep pace with his cousins, Finrod wondered for a moment why the creature was not stalking them in turn; then he remembered what Maedhros had said of the nauror in Himring, and felt abruptly sick. Doubtless any spirit successfully tethered in such a way would have had to be - warped, or changed, such that survival of the body became paramount over all other considerations. And indeed it continued to flee from them, until in the early afternoon they ran it to ground.

The first sign of such was Maedhros’ abrupt, "It is nearing the end of its strength; be wary." A short minute after, Finrod could sense it for himself: a thickening of the poison in the air, a sudden sense of weariness that dragged at his limbs. There was a stench, too, so close. Old sweat, rotting meat, traces of filth: the scent of a creature that did not wash itself, and cared for nothing but its own ravenous hunger. 

Mingled pity and revulsion welled up in Finrod’s breast; he felt nauseous. By their expressions, Maedhros and Maglor’s chosen hunters were not doing much better. Maedhros and Maglor themselves were twin walls of impassivity, though if Finrod looked closely he could see faint lines of worry about Maglor’s mouth. 

Following the smell, the sound of the nauro could be heard: it was crashing through underbrush, growling low in its throat.

As one, the hunters drew their bows.  Maglor in the lead dropped back to Finrod, for their role would be as Singers only. Finrod tensed, every nerve alight with anticipation as he scanned the brush for the source of the heaving breathless growl - there! A flash of green in the shadows! - a hail of arrows whistled through the air and the terrible eyes winked out for a moment - then suddenly the Wolf with three arrows in its throat leaped upon Maedhros with a terrible gurgling roar. Elf and nauro rolled together from Maedhros’ horse, landing heavily upon the ground. Maedhros had his dagger out and was slashing grimly at the Wolf’s head with his left arm; his stump was driven into the nauro’s neck, forcing its jaws backwards. The creature was tearing up great clods of earth with its claws in its frenzy to get to Maedhros; the hunters had swords in hand and were approaching with faces set.

"Hold!" Maglor cried suddenly from behind, a clarion that filled Finrod’s ears and slowed everyone for a moment, even the Wolf, "I will Sing! Hold!"

He began a Song of sleep, which dragged Finrod’s eyelids down despite the warning. With an effort he shook himself and saw the archers about him doing the same. Only Maedhros seemed unaffected, grimly holding the Wolf off. Its struggles slowed slightly as Maglor sang, and Maedhros flipped it onto its back and plunged his dagger into its head.

Still it would not die, though it was bleeding from half-a-dozen arrow wounds and should have been killed instantly at Maedhros’ last blow. It whined once, short and sharp, and flung itself again onto Maedhros. 

Watching it, Finrod felt sorrow well up in his throat. He thought of the Quendi who had loved their freedom under the stars, and found as their reward servitude without end to a cruel master. A song came unbidden to his lips: a song of traps broken, chains wrenched apart, the empty shackle upon Thangorodrim. After a moment he heard Maglor’s voice join with his own, deeper and more resonant.

The Wolf stood stock-still, panting terribly, its blood dripping to the ground; then as Finrod kept singing with Maglor, it wavered  visibly and finally lowered to the ground. It was breathing heavily now, the sounds of an animal wounded to the death. For a moment it seemed to Finrod as if the nauro had two sets of eyes, one green and one silver; the green wolf-eyes were confused and terribly hungry, the silver eyes heavy with sadness and a relief so profound it was almost a pain of its own.

As they dimmed, both terrible eyes met his, and suddenly it seemed to Finrod that the Wolf spoke with a voice of spirit: well-met, master of illusions. Your teeth are sharp and your nails long. I thank you, freedom-bringer; and I am sorry.

Finrod blinked - master of illusions? - and suddenly in the time between one blink and the next he Saw -

eyes that were weary as the Eldar were never weary, looking into his own with love that seemed rooted in the very earth -

laughing beside a fire, with the owner of those selfsame eyes, the giggles and shrieks of children at play in the background: so many children! He had never seen so many even in Aman -

nut-brown locks and a bitter mouth, spitting wisdom angrily -

The same bitter mouth, now framed by white hair, hurling insults with fondness behind them -

Mud in his hair and his ears, caking his clothes, deep spreading pain in his shoulder and wetness following, creeping dread chased away by the low sound of horns that were familiar yet strange -

Dark stone, and chains, and green eyes that glittered feverishly in the dark, and his head resting on wasted legs as the breath whistled strangely from his chest -

Finrod came back to himself with a ragged gasp. He felt a shift in the air, a barrier melting away, and there was only a dead animal on the ground.

He had to go East. He felt it, the call of the vision. It could not be gainsaid, terrible as it was - and the love in those old-young eyes - and so many children -

Maedhros picked himself up off the ground and approached. "My thanks, Cousin!" he said, almost smiling. "Your skill with Song has grown greatly since last I heard you."

Finrod inclined his head and smiled in return. "Thank you for allowing me to accompany you," he said warmly. "But I fear I must depart."

"So soon!" Maglor exclaimed. "Why? There may be more of those creatures roaming about, and you must let us treat you to a full supper back at Himring -"

"Maglor makes very free with my hospitality," Maedhros interjected, "but he is quite right about the danger, and about the dinner too. What is the matter?"

"You needn’t worry," Finrod said almost gaily, "But no gaurhoth shall touch me yet. It is not my fate. I must go East," he added more soberly. "I have Seen it."

His cousins continued to protest; but he held firm, and at the last they yielded and sent him on his way with his borrowed mare, all the provisions they could spare, and kind words aplenty. He directed Hirfindë due East, and gave her her head. 

Out in the open, wind against his face, cousins receding rapidly into the background, he was not sure whether to laugh or cry. Such a fate - such a fate! The joy - the love - the children! Not his own, but they loved him, and he them: he had felt it. 

But no light at the last! It was terrible. Could anything be worth the creeping hopelessness he had felt, in the last seconds of the vision? He could turn around, go back to his cousins, leave Fate alone in the East. Perhaps she would not call a second time, and he could go forth in hope to an unknown ending.

But those eyes! He had never seen anything like those eyes! And the children!

"I will go, Hirfindë," he said aloud. "I cannot do otherwise."

As he rode towards Ossiriand, he thought he heard snatches of song on the wind: too deep to be Elvish, too fair to be Orcish, in a tongue he did not know. Who was singing? Such joy, in the bitter East!

He raised his own voice in answer.