CANTO VI Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor
The deeds of mighty Bëor’s clan that bards still sing in Elven-song in ages long ago began on the sloping hills of Dorthonion.
For many years would Bëor’s folk walk upon the stony land and labor neath the beech and oak of Ladros, and in Beleriand went Baran mighty, Bregolas, and Morwen Eledhwen, stern and fair. For many seasons the leaf and grass, grew and fell in northern air beneath the stars, and grew again. But long ago was loud the cry of Barahir on flaming plain, that rang beneath the smoking sky when Ard-galen in embers laved, and Finrod thus with mighty spear in dire hour from death was saved. His ring he gave to Barahir borne out of the Undying West a token of abiding bond, and later, as unlooked for guest did Beren come to Nargothrond to call on everlasting ties the oath of friendship unforsaken and answered him did Finrod wise. By roadways that were seldom taken they went forth. Of pain and death unheeding rode they, Beren bold and Finrod fair. The bitter breath of morgul-towers and sorcelled cold would fare for the hand of Lúthien. Yet there would perish Finrod king in dungeon deep and pit within when round him wound a creeping ring of beastly wolves, whose iron teeth tore into Finrod’s body bare, who fell in darkness far beneath the Sirion’s water that once ran clear. And flew he then on dying wing, from yawning gate and darkling walls and Hither-lands passed Finrod king, returning to the timeless Halls where Mandos sits and looks afar, and walks he now on Shinning Shore, but under Moon or under star
to hither comes he never more.
But Beren was, beyond all hope saved from death by Tinúviel. They buried Finrod on the slope of island green, as morgul-spell she broke and cleaned. They went alone through woods of nightshade flying sped, to stand uncloaked before the Throne and dauntless meet the King of Dread. So singing Lúthien cast him down, and Beren cut from forgéd weld Fëanor’s Jewel from Iron Crown. With hands enjoined they both beheld the Jewel of light. Though both defied they Foe and Oath of Silmaril, yet in the end she also died, beside Beren dead, Tinúviel, who danced in starlit hemlock-paths where once the Elven-river ran in green, inviolate Doriath, before the mortal Sun began.
And dark the Norland waters turned in rivers rushing down to shore, and into ruin. Kingdoms burned by flames of treachery and war. Fell Gondolin and Nargothrond and Doriath hidden, green and fair, where nightingales in Region once sang and thrilled the forest air. For under waves of ocean rolling are mountain, vale, and cave alike, the silver harps, the clock-bells tolling, the jeweléd pillars, sword and pike. And foundered now is Elvenesse, the golden halls, the carven ways, and all the things of loveliness that once there were in Elder Days.
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