24: Into the Mountains

Running away... I preferred to think of it as retreating against insurmountable odds. I was one against the whole of Eldamar. At least, that is how I saw it at the time. Looking back, I know that what I did was foolish, even childish, but the sense of freedom that I felt as I made my way towards the mountains cannot be denied. For the first time since being re-embodied, I was genuinely happy....

****

“So, history is repeating itself,” Manwë mused when Tulkas informed him and the other Valar of Findaráto’s flight from Tirion.

“If it is, he’s heading in the wrong direction,” Námo pointed out with a snort, sounding more amused than anything. “He should be making his way down the Calacirya. Where does he think he’s going?”

“He’s heading towards the Pelóri according to Ravenni,” Tulkas said.

“Or perhaps he’s laying a false trail, and he plans on circling back around before heading elsewhere,” Oromë offered. “There is nothing to the southeast for him.”

“Except the mountains where he can lose himself,” Aulë stated. “He has had centuries of practice in living off the land in Beleriand after all. It would be easy for him to disappear into the Pelóri and Arafinwë would never find him.”

“Unless someone told him where to look,” Námo said. “When our elfling prince is found missing, Arafinwë will waste time looking for him in Lórien or on Tol Eressëa. He will never guess that his son has chosen the route that he has.”

“Yet, helping Arafinwë and Eärwen with their Reborn while not helping the families of other Reborn would be unfair for all,” Manwë said in a reasonable tone.

“Findaráto is not just any Reborn, though,” Varda pointed out. “He is haryon to the Noldóran and a prince of Eldamar, and those are just his titles here in Aman, never mind those he garnered in the Outer Lands.”

Námo, however, shook his head. “Manwë is correct. Neither I nor Irmo keep constant tabs on the Reborn once they leave our demesnes. This is a crisis that happens with most Reborn and we leave them and their families to deal with it as they can. It is how both parties learn to cope with the reality of their new situation. We should do no less for this particular family. To do otherwise would be a disservice to them.”

“Still, the other Reborn have all reacted as predicted,” Vairë said then. “Whenever any of them decide to run away, it’s nearly always to Lórien, though a few who reside in Tirion or Eldamas will head for Tol Eressëa instead. In either case, their families are able to find them quickly enough and bring them back to where they belong. Findaráto is doing neither. He is acting in an unpredictable manner and that could prove disastrous.”

“He has obviously thought it all out,” Manwë said, almost approvingly. “He is acting rather than reacting. I have no doubt that he has a particular goal in mind if not an actual destination, for he cannot know what lies within the mountains themselves.”

“So, if we do not inform Arafinwë where to find his son, what do we do?” Oromë asked.

“Should we do anything at all?” Nienna enquired. “When Arafinwë has looked for his son in all the obvious places, he is likely to come to us for help.”

“And we do not want him to do that,” Irmo replied. “It would set a precedent for others trying to deal with their Reborn. Námo and I have been very careful to keep out of the way of our former charges’ lives once they are reunited with their family and friends, except in rare instances. For all that he is of the House of Finwë, Findaráto is really no different from any of the other Reborn and he should be treated no differently.”

“Yet, he is different,” Aulë said. “His destiny is not that of other Reborn.”

There was silence amongst them for a time as each contemplated possible avenues of action. Finally, though, Manwë spoke. “Telling Arafinwë where to find his son is not an option at this time, however, convincing Findaráto to return to Tirion voluntarily is.”

“What do you have in mind?” Varda asked her spouse.

Manwë’s only answer was a smile.

****

Finrod brought Mithrod to a halt and stared up in awe at the sheer heights of the mountains before him. By now it was nearly dawn and the pearly grey light allowed him to see them better. He did not remember them being so high before, though admittedly, he also did not remember ever climbing them. The Pelóri had simply been there, a part of the background, but not any place he had wished to venture into.

Until now.

He swept his gaze about him, gauging the land for any possible dangers. At least he did not have to contend with orcs, but that did not preclude the possibility of other dangers just as deadly. Still, he breathed in deeply the dark green scent of mountain laurel and pine and smiled. Yes, this is where he belonged. He heard the sound of water somewhere nearby and urging his horse forward he went in search of the source, coming upon a stream that ran out of the mountains towards the southwest. He dismounted and let Mithrod drink for a time before setting off again upstream, deciding to walk along the stream bank while Mithrod followed.

As he walked he recalled roaming through Ossiriand and coming upon Bëor and his people beneath the springs of Thalos hard by the Ered Luin. He smiled at the memory. That had perhaps been the happiest time for him, the year he spent among the Edain, teaching them, and learning from them. Well, he was not going to find any Mortals haunting these mountains, unfortunately. In fact, he was unlikely to come across anyone at all, and that suited him just fine.

Anar rose as he was beginning to wend his way deeper into the higher reaches of the mountains, still following the stream. He kept his eyes open and his bow at hand, wary against possible danger. He remembered that it was in the south somewhere that Melkor had found Ungoliantë. Most likely other monsters still existed, though hopefully there were none who were Úmaiar as she had been.

The way became steeper and the going slower, for the stream now cut its way through a series of ravines and there was no place for him to walk along it. Instead he was forced to climb to the top. Mithrod followed willingly enough, though the horse was clearly unhappy about it, much preferring the open plains below them with their succulent grasses.

“Sorry, Mithrod,” Finrod said, giving the horse a pat on his neck. “I should have let you go your own way but if I had you would have led Atar here and we can’t have that, can we?”

Mithrod gave an equine snort and Finrod wasn’t sure if the horse was agreeing with him or not. He patted Mithrod again and then turned his attention to his surroundings. They were on a sort of plateau, very narrow but more open than what they had traversed earlier. Before him the mountains continued to rise into the heavens and he could only marvel at their snow-capped peaks shining whitely under the sun. He would not go that far up, he decided, but would seek a place where he could set up camp and hunt. Water was critical and he hoped that the stream he had been following would lead to a tarn. He gazed down into the ravine where he could see the stream, a ribbon of silver winding its way through the dark firs and mountain ash.

“Come on, Mithrod,” he said, heading due south along the ridge. “Let’s see if we can’t find a nice cave to live in.”

Mithrod gave another snort and a shake of his head, but followed his master willingly enough, for which Finrod was grateful. He might not have the company of other Elves and he knew his new life would be a lonely one out here in the wilderness, but as long as he had Mithrod that would be enough.

****

Arafinwë held Eärwen in his arms, trying to comfort her, though he knew there was no comfort to be had for either of them. “We’ll find him,” he said softly, hugging her. “We’ll find our son. He cannot have gotten far.”

“Where could he have gone and why?” Eärwen cried.

“There are two places he might have gone,” Arafinwë replied. “Lórien would be my first guess and I will go there and send Amandur to Tol Eressëa in case he went that way instead.”

“I know he was feeling sad and lonely,” Eärwen said with a sigh, “but I thought he was adjusting to being here.”

“As did I,” Arafinwë said, “but apparently we were wrong. I was wrong.”

Eärwen stepped out of her husband’s embrace. “Go, my love. Go find our son.”

Arafinwë bent down and kissed her gently on her cheek, then straightened. “We’ll find him, Eärwen. Believe this.” Then he turned, shouting for Calandil and Amandur to attend him as he strode out of the royal apartments to go after his firstborn, never realizing that his search would prove fruitless.

****

The stream’s source turned out to be a spring bubbling up from the ground near a rocky outcrop in the midst of a mountain meadow. Along the way Finrod encountered three successive waterfalls, the last one (or the first depending on one’s direction) about a quarter of a mile from the spring. He decided to call them the Nésar Neldë. Looking about him, and seeing that Mithrod was already settling in, grazing on the rich meadow grass and flowers, he decided this was as good a place as any for his camp. It was now well past noon and he knew he needed to stop and construct some kind of shelter before nightfall.

“Well, Mithrod,” he said, unloading the bags of supplies from the horse’s back, “I guess we’re home.” Mithrod did not deign to answer, but merely continued eating.

Finrod gave his horse a fond smile as he pulled a small hatchet from the pile of supplies. He was glad he had had the foresight to include one. He still was wishing for a sword but had to content himself with several long-handled knives. He stuck one in his belt and then headed towards a stand of trees to see if he could find suitable deadfall with which to construct a lean-to. He wasn’t sure he would be staying here in this one spot forever. Most likely, after he and Mithrod had rested for a few days and explored the area, they might move deeper into the mountains, but he postponed making any definite plans for the moment.

He was in luck. Sometime in the past a mountain storm had brought down several large pines and there was enough wood to be had to construct a decent lean-to as well as provide for a fire. He set about eagerly, whistling a sprightly tune as he hacked away at the branches and dragged them to a spot near the spring where he had decided to set up camp. The afternoon was waning and Anar was setting behind a ridge that blocked his view of the west by the time he was finished.

He looked upon his handiwork with quiet satisfaction. For once his memories had not betrayed him. In fact, he realized that he had not had to call up any memories consciously, he had simply known what to do instinctively and that pleased him. Rummaging around in his packs, he pulled out some dried meat and fruit and a loaf of crusty bread and sat before the open doorway of his shelter and ate his first dinner in his new home. Tomorrow, he decided, he would go hunting. When he had finished eating, washing everything down with the cold mountain water, he found his harp and spent the rest of the evening softly strumming the strings, idly humming tunes but not really interested in singing anything in particular as he watched the stars bloom above him. They seemed so much closer here than in Tirion, as if he could just reach out and touch them. Only when Isil rose shortly after midnight did he put the harp away and stretch out in front of the fire, throwing his cloak around him. He gazed up into the starry heavens and allowed himself to slip onto the Path of Dreams as Tilion, gazing from his great height, watched over him.

****

The week that followed his flight into the mountains was a fruitful one for Finrod. Hunting was good and as he sat before his fire smoking deer meat he felt a contentment rising within him that had not been there before. Roaming about, he realized that he had perhaps found the ideal spot for his new home and thus set about making the camp more permanent. The hastily constructed lean-to was torn down and a more stable structure was raised modeled after the rude huts of the Edain among whom he had lived for a time. Suspecting that the weather would worsen as the seasons turned from autumn to winter, he set about waterproofing the hut and making it as snug as possible against inclement weather. Again, his memories played no tricks on him and he was pleased at how quickly they came to his aid. Perhaps living by himself was just what he needed. It seemed that without the distractions of court life constantly demanding his attention, he was able to recall more and more of his former life. Sitting beside the fire or hiding in a tree waiting for game to appear, he had time to contemplate his life, both lives, and put things into perspective.

“Now, if only Glorfi were here, life would be perfect,” he said to Mithrod one day. He had gotten into the habit of speaking out loud to his horse though Mithrod rarely responded with anything more than a snort. He also began speaking to the trees the same way, telling them of his hopes and dreams as he sat in the crook of a branch or indulged himself with a good swinging session. They proved good listeners and even on a windless day they would rustle their branches at him, letting him know that they were aware of his presence.

He made friends with the birds, though he did not understand their language. “I should have had my cousin Celegorm teach me,” he said with a chuckle as he listened to the trilling of redwings and ammali. He spied a peregrine falcon high in the air above him one day and wondered if it was keeping a watch on him. The thought unsettled him for a time but finally he shrugged his unease away. He had been here for a week and no plaguey Maia or even one of the Valar had shown up to shoo him back to Tirion. He had no doubt they knew full well where he was. That his atar hadn’t shown up with half his guards to drag him back by now led him to suspect that, for reasons of their own, the Valar had not told his parents where to find him.

He felt a pang of remorse at the thought of his parents worrying about him, but against the hostility, indifference and callousness of the court towards him, it wasn’t enough to send him back to them. Perhaps, in time, he would return to Tirion. He did wish that he had a means of letting them know that he was well and happy and even contemplated sending Mithrod back down the mountain with a message tube around his neck but decided against it. For one thing, he had nothing with which to write and there were no message tubes to be had anyway.

And so, the first week went by and a second week was half over when things began to go wrong. It started one night when Finrod woke to a flash of lightning followed almost immediately by thunder. Then, the skies opened up and a torrential downpour commenced. Finrod cursed in Sindarin as he called to Mithrod and brought him into his hut. It made for crowded conditions, but at least it was warm and more or less dry.

Unfortunately, the storm did not pass over quickly though the downpour slackened to a steady rain by the time dawn came stealing over the mountain peaks. Finrod looked out from the doorway and gave a sigh, his expression glum.

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be doing any hunting today, Mithrod, or much of anything else.” He let his horse out to graze, for Mithrod did not mind the rain as much as he did.

Finrod glanced skyward to see that more dark clouds were piling up around the mountain peaks and grimaced. He was sure he was safe enough for now, but if the rains continued for too long, there was the danger of the stream overflowing its banks and flooding him out. Coming to a decision, he gathered all his supplies and loped off towards the trees, deciding to wait out the rain sheltered by the woods. If his hut was destroyed, he would just build anew, perhaps on higher ground away from the stream. It would be less convenient but probably safer.

He glowered at the sky as he settled into the branches of a mountain ash and wished he had one of his Sindarin-made cloaks from before. His Amanian-made cloak did not seem to be as waterproof as his old cloaks from Beleriand had been. Still, he had endured worse weather and at least he did not have a contingent of orcs to deal with at the same time.

The rain eventually tapered to a drizzle around noon and by mid-afternoon it had stopped completely, though the clouds did not disperse. Finrod climbed out of his tree and slogged his way across the meadow to ascertain the state of his hut. It was still standing, and that was the only good thing about the day. Everything was wet and it was nearly impossible to start a fire, for he had not had the foresight of putting some wood inside his hut to keep dry.

“I’m glad there aren’t any Nandor around to laugh at me,” he said out loud, disgusted with himself as he went back towards the trees to find some kindling that was only partially wet. “You would think I would have remembered that much from before.”

Eventually, he got a small blaze going and gathered some branches to dry before it while he rummaged around for whatever he could find to eat. He had meant to go hunting that day, but the rain had forestalled him and now he was scrounging for leftovers. Well, he had gone hungry before, and hopefully the next day would prove better. Rain or no rain, he needed to hunt. That was his last thought as he huddled under his cloak and slipped onto the Path of Dreams.

****

The next couple of days, the clouds continued to darken the skies, but the rain held off. The temperature began to drop, though, and a cold northern wind blew down upon him. Winter was coming, but even so, he was surprised at how cold it had turned overnight. He contemplated moving down the mountain where it might not be so cold, but decided against it.

“You crossed the Helcaraxë,” he muttered to himself as he went about gathering more wood. “This is nothing in comparison.”

It was time to hunt again, but it was proving difficult to find suitable game. For some reason it had mostly disappeared and he could not fathom why. He was forced to travel further and sometimes the best he could find were some coneys and once he came upon some wild goats, but the deer seemed to have vanished. Still, he refused to give up. If he had to, he would move elsewhere in the mountains, see if he could track the deer to wherever they had fled. In the meantime, he would not starve, but rabbit stew morning, noon and night was becoming tiresome.

Another week or so went by and Finrod had been away for nearly a month. The days were growing shorter and the cold was increasing, but he felt he would make it through the coming winter. The rains fell occasionally, but not as much as before. Still, it was only a matter of time before rain would turn to snow and that might be a different story altogether. He did what he could to make his hut more secure and snug and hoped for the best.

That hope proved to be in vain, for one day it rained and it did not stop raining for some days. There was little let-up and when the sun set the temperatures dropped even more and the rain would turn to sleet and snow. It was a miserable time for both Finrod and Mithrod, who had to dig under the snow and ice to find enough forage. Then, the cold stayed and so did the snow. In fact, Finrod woke one morning to find the entrance of his hut blocked with it. It took him some time to dig himself out and he feared for Mithrod, wondering if his horse had been drowned in snow overnight. Oddly enough, when he finally escaped his snowbound prison, it was to discover that the snow was deep only around his hut. Elsewhere it was no deeper than it had been the day before and Mithrod was calmly foraging under the trees. Odder still, every morning for the next three days he woke to find his doorway blocked with snow. “Remember, you survived the Helcaraxë,” he kept telling himself as he dug himself out once again.

He also had to go further and further afield in search of game, coming back late in the afternoons with only a brace of coneys or a couple of scrawny looking mountain pheasants or with nothing at all. He had begun taking Mithrod with him for sometimes he had to go quite a distance from the camp before he found anything, if he found anything at all. It was wearying both on hröa and fëa. ‘You survived the Helcaraxë’ soon became a sort of litany that he repeated to himself whenever his resolve weakened and he thought to return to Tirion.

And so, the days passed and it was now the beginning of the second month since he had fled Tirion. Coming back to his camp one afternoon, Finrod was in high spirits. He had been out hunting and had actually found a stray deer, which cheered him. Every once in a while on the way back to camp he would turn to make sure that the carcass was still tied to Mithrod’s back, patting it as if to assure himself that it was really there. As they neared the hut, Mithrod suddenly stopped and refused to move forward, his ears twitching and his eyes rolling in obvious fear. Finrod slid off his back, instantly alert to trouble, unslinging his bow and nocking an arrow as he inched his way forward towards the open doorway. He had not bothered with constructing a proper door as yet, only a screen of branches that during the day was placed to one side of the doorway. He was almost at the entrance when a shadow filled the opening and then a black bear came out, snarling.

Finrod leapt out of its way as the creature rose to its full height, perhaps ten or twelve feet. Mithrod gave an equine scream and ran, carrying the deer carcass with him. The bear, obviously smelling the fresh meat, started after the horse.

“No!” Finrod screamed and he shot an arrow at the bear. It struck its shoulder and the bear now turned on him. He scrambled out of its way, reaching for his knife, knowing that against such a creature it was not much of a weapon. The bear, enraged both by the arrow in its shoulder and the loss of an easy meal, lunged at Finrod, who sidestepped it, moving back towards the stream. He had no real plan save to stay alive. His only chance of that was if he managed somehow to kill the beast. He continued backing up and the bear followed. If he could reach the rocky outcrop he could leap up to the top of it, thereby giving him the advantage of height.

He stole a quick glance behind him to gauge his distance and seeing that he was close enough, he began running towards the outcrop. The bear gave a growl and followed quickly. Finrod could almost feel the hot breath of the creature on his neck as he leapt upward. He landed on a flat part of the outcrop and was congratulating himself for having avoided the bear when he suddenly felt himself slipping from a patch of ice that lay under the snow covering the rocks. He flailed about, trying to regain his balance, but it was too late. He found himself falling right onto the bear who had risen on its hind legs in an attempt to reach him. Instinctively, he brought his knife up at the last minute and by some miracle he thrust the blade into the bear’s open mouth even as he rammed into the creature, knocking it to the ground. He, however, bounced back onto the rocks, screaming in sudden agony as he felt bones snap. Then he was falling, the ground rushing up to meet him, and he remembered nothing more.

****

Finrod woke to pain and to someone licking his face. He cracked open his eyes and saw Mithrod standing over him. The horse bent down and nudged him. He licked dry lips and tried to move, only to nearly pass out again for the pain. His right leg was broken and in more than one place he thought. Despair took him at that moment. There was no way he could remain on the mountain with a broken leg. He doubted he could even splint it adequately enough and then the bones would heal crookedly and he would be crippled. He scooped up some snow and used it to wet his lips, the coldness of it clearing his head a bit.

“Mithrod,” he croaked, tears brimming and then freezing on his cheeks, “oh, Mithrod, I’m so glad you came back. We cannot stay. I have to leave the mountain and find help.” He forced himself to a sitting position, gasping with the effort and looked about him. The sun was nearly setting and soon the night would come and the temperatures would plunge well below freezing. The bear lay dead with his knife still lodged in its mouth. He crawled over to it, ignoring the fire in his right leg, and pulled the knife out, cleaning it with snow. He then continued crawling across the meadow to the hut. It was grueling and he had to stop several times to catch his breath and let the waves of pain subside. Finally, though, he reached the hut and gathered up a few items. Much of what he had he could easily leave behind, but he would not leave behind his precious harp or his other knives. Then he crawled back outside to where Mithrod stood silently waiting.

It took some time and much cursing before he managed to stand and cut the deer carcass off the horse before slinging the saddlebags on him. Then he struggled to climb onto Mithrod’s back. It was excruciating and the pain was overwhelming. He leaned over and in a harsh voice full of pain and a sense of defeat he whispered, “Bado, Mithrod. Tegi nin na mar nîn. Tegi nin na Dirion.”

Mithrod gave a whinny and then set off down the mountain with his beloved master who had given into the pain and had passed out again.

****

“Stubborn child,” Irmo said almost admiringly at Findaráto’s tenacity. He and the other Valar were standing on a south-facing balcony overlooking the Pelóri where they had gathered to watch the drama unfolding in a certain mountain meadow. “I was sure all that snow you dumped on him, Manwë, would do the trick.”

“Indeed,” said Námo who was standing next to him. He turned to the Elder King who stood to his right. “The bear was a nice touch, though I think a bit overdone and quite unpredictable as to the outcome. Findaráto could well have been killed and that would have made me very unhappy.” There were snorts of amusement from the others.

Manwë gave him an apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry, the bear wasn’t my idea.” He turned to Oromë standing further along the balcony. “Your idea, Oromë?”

“No. I only made the game scarce,” the Lord of Forests said. “I wish I had thought of it, but Námo is right. Introducing the bear was pretty risky.”

“Well, if you didn’t call the bear,” Námo said, “and Manwë didn’t, who did?”

There were shrugs all around. Oromë frowned. “Coincidence?” he asked, sounding tentative.

“If you believe in such things,” Manwë replied with equanimity.

There was a considering silence as the Valar contemplated many things even as they continued watching Findaráto’s horse make his way back down the mountain with the unconscious ellon on his back.

****

Words are Quenya unless otherwise noted.

Haryon: Throne-heir to a king.

Úmaiar: Those Maiar who followed Melkor.

Nésar neldë: The Three Sisters. In Quenya, the numeral follows the noun, which also receives any case endings. The numeral is indeclinable and inflects as a singular noun.

Ammali: Plural of ammalë: yellow bird, literally, ‘yellow hammer’. Also spelled ambalë.

Bado, Mithrod. Tegi nin na mar nîn. Tegi nin na Dirion: (Sindarin) ‘Go, Mithrod. Bring me to my home. Bring me to Tirion’.