A Ring Given, A Debt Incurred

Written for the ALEC "Cost of Friendship" contest where it came in third place.

Summary - Sometimes the cost of friendship is not evident until long after the events that mark the beginning of it, as Finrod comes to learn.

Thanks to Fiondil and Alassiel for the beta.

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The child clung to him, pudgy fingers wrapping his newly pressed robes in a strong grip. Joyous laughter, eyes full of glee followed him everywhere he went in the settlement. Occasionally he managed to elude the grasp, but then wails and a pitiful pout always drew him back within reach of the little one.

As the boy grew, he continued to follow his idol at every opportunity. Letters arrived each month telling of the boy’s determination to be just like him in every way he could from the braiding of his hair to the learning of his writing and numbers to his wielding a willow bow and a wooden sword.

When the boy became a young man it only seemed right he should enter into the service of his chosen role model. The epitome of politeness and generosity, the youth bowed more deeply, sat straighter, fought more courageously in battle, and leant the might and skill of his hand whenever possible – all in emulation of the one he served.

When the young man took a wife and sired a child, he gave that son a name in remembrance of that one who meant so much to him. He even taught the boy Sindarin and Quenya in the hopes that one day his son might serve his lord as well as he strove to do himself.

At last the ultimate test of his strength and prowess placed him on the field of battle side by side with the master he loved so well. Many hundreds had fallen around them, but so long as his lord continued to face the foe, he would as well. Many an orc died on the blades of those two, but the enemy grew bolder the longer the battle raged. Cut off from the main part of the army, the master was surrounded with few of his guard remaining to protect him. Six orcs rushed in a united assault, but the servant, joined suddenly by more of his own kind, threw himself in the enemy’s path in a last desperate attempt to protect his lord.

As the red blood sprayed upon him, Finrod Felagund screamed. He awoke, struggling wildly to reach out to the man from his dream, even though he knew it was too late to save him.

“No! My Lord! Please, you must remain still!” Someone cried.

“Barahir, Edrahil, help me hold him before he bleeds out!” the voice commanded.

Hands grabbed Finrod’s arms, pinning them at his sides.

Briefly more blood sprayed, but then a great weight pressed on his shoulder, side, and leg.

“No! Valar, NO!” Finrod yelled, thrashing to free himself. “He did not! Eru, no!” But his cries turned to wails as he sobbed, “No. No, he did not…Barandir…Barandir…No…no.”

“My lord! My lord,” Barahir cried, trying to call him back to the present. Roughly, he grabbed Finrod’s chin and turned his head to look into his eyes. “Finrod, Barandir is dead. The orcs cut him down. There is nothing you can do for him now. Barandir is dead. We had enough trouble as it was bringing you out of the fray.”

Barahir took a deep breath, then spoke more softly as Finrod stilled. “The blows he took were meant for you, my friend. Had he not been there when he was…We…We…” Tears dredged trails through the grime on Barahir’s face, dripping onto Finrod’s. “We would have lost you, too, my lord, and that…that would have been a blow from which neither your folk nor mine would ever have recovered. Now please, please lie still that the healers may tend you, lest young Barandir’s sacrifice be in vain.”

“But why…” Finrod wept. “Why did he do it? He was given so few years, why… did he do this? Why? I am not-”

His voice proud, Barahir quietly interrupted, “My lord, “Any one of us would have done the same and considered it a great honor. You have earned our love and our respect many times over. Now be at peace and rest that you may grow strong again, so that my son and his sons may have the privilege and honor of serving you as have I.”

Finrod choked on his tears, heaving desperate painful breaths. Gently Barahir smoothed his hair away from his face while his strong hand held the hand of Finrod’s uninjured arm.

When the healers finally relented in their ministrations some time late, Finrod weakly commanded, “Edrahil, remove my ring and give it to me, please.”

Carefully Edrahil lifted the damaged hand, cradling its mangled arm to his chest as he removed the ring as gently as he could. Finrod hissed in pain, gasping and panting as he finally closed his good hand over the ring.

“Barahir?” Finrod rasped. “Where is-“

“I am here, my lord,” came the weary reply from somewhere to his right in the darkness of the cave.

“Give…give me your hand, Barahir.”

Barahir did as he was asked, inhaling sharply in surprise as the ring slipped over his finger. “My lord?” he questioned in awe. “What…?”

Finrod closed his hand over Barahir’s, the last of his strength fading as he spoke. “Barahir, take this ring in token of my oath to you. I…I swear…I swear to you that I will aide you and your descendants in time of need, in any way that I can. You and yours have but to ask. You…you have but to ask.”