Summary: Finrod has always had a special friendship with Mortals, especially with those of the House of Bëor, and intellectual fascination about the different fates of their races regarding death and what comes after it. But now he faces it in reality - dying for one of them. How does it feel to an immortal?

For the B2MeM 2014 prompt: "In that time the air of Middle-earth became heavy with the breath of growth and mortality, and the changing and ageing of all things was hastened exceedingly; life teemed upon the soil and in the waters in the Second Spring of Arda, and the Eldar increased, and beneath the new Sun Beleriand grew green and fair." (The Silmarillion, "Of Men")
Mortality, change, growth are key elements to define the different race in Middle-earth. Write a story or create art where these topics play a central role.

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: violence, canon character death

Beta: Cairistiona

No Regrets

"Tree," the Man said, pointing at a tall beech-tree with silver trunk.

The Elf nodded slowly. "Tree?" he repeated with a strong accent.

The Man frowned a little, obviously not too content with the mangling of the word, but after a while he nodded, accepting it as good enough for the moment.

"Galadh," the Elf said clearly, pointing at the same tree. "Tree. Galadh."

"Ga… Galadh?"

The Elf smiled approvingly. Then, having another idea, he pointed at himself. "Finrod," he said, taking care to pronounce every syllable clearly.

The Man's eyes got more serious and understanding. "Finrod," he repeated. "You are Finrod."

"Ma," the Elf smiled. "Im Finrod eston. A len?" he asked, pointing at his companion.

The Man understood the question even without knowing the words. "Balan," he said clearly. "My name is Balan.

Finrod smiled again, and put his hand above his heart. "Mae g'ovannen, Balan."

"Mae… govannen, Finrod?" the Man repeated uncertainly.

Finrod nodded, and from a sudden impulse, he took the Man's hand and pressed it slightly. Balan pressed it back, firmly and confidently.

The hand he held was torn away from his grasp. He still felt its warmth in his palm, still remembered the touch as the smell of blood filled the darkness. There were sounds – terrible sounds that filled it with horrifying images: a scream, chopped off in gurgling. Something wet tearing. Crushing of bones. A snarl. Champing. And then silence. He could still feel the touch, but it was quickly fading to memory. Someone tried to sing, but the darkness swallowed the song. The darkness swallowed all.

"But it is so soon…" Finrod shook his head, trying not to weep and not to let the injustice he felt be heard in his voice.

But Bëor knew him too well. "You are an elda, mellon nin," he said gently, reaching to Finrod with a shaky hands. "For me, it was a whole lifetime. I am tired now. You must let me go…"

Finrod looked at the one whom he knew as Balan when they first met. He was a strong man back then, with sparkle in his grey eyes, and a thick mane of dark hair. Now he was called Bëor – "vassal" in the language of his people, as he left them under the rule of his eldest son to stay in Finrod's kingdom in Nargothrond. "The old", they also called him now, and Finrod could see the reason for it clearly. His friend's hair was now white, and his eyes dulled with age. The skin on his hands was dry and brittle like old parchment, covered with stains. There was an old man in the place of his friend, whom he met just a few decades ago – so little time for a Firstborn child of Ilúvatar.

"We had so little time," Finrod protested, tried to plead with him. "If I had known, I would have spent more of it with you. There is so much I wanted to show you! I would have taken you to the sea, Bëor. We would have listened to its song together… We…"

"It's alright, Nóm," Bëor replied gently, using the name his people gave to Finrod. "It's alright. It was a good life to me, and I enjoyed every moment."

"But… it's unfair…" Finrod finally wasn't able to hold back his tears.

"It is…" Bëor agreed quietly, taking Finrod's hand into his frail one. "But do not weep, my friend. It is how we are born, and you can't change it." He paused – taking was getting difficult to him. Then he smiled just a little. "I will live in your memory, immortal there," he whispered.

"I will always remember you," Finrod assured him.

"Good," Bëor smiled. "When you go to the sea, you will remember me. It will be as if I am with you."

"Are you not afraid?" Finrod whispered through the tears, the finality of the death of the Secondborn still a great and scary mystery to him.

"I'm not. And you should not be either. I'm more curious, you know… It might not seem to you, but for a Man, I have lived long enough. It is time to go. Farewell, Finda…"

Finrod could feel the grip on his hand weakening.

"Farewell, my friend…" he whispered.

Another of their companions was taken from them. There was no warning, no time to grasp hands for a false feeling of safety. There was just a deep, menacing growl, and two shining eyes in the darkness… and then the cut-off scream and familiar sounds. For a short moment of cold dread he thought it was going to be him. He was afraid. Afraid of pain, of dying. He knew he was going to die. He had known it since the beginning, since the very moment he saw the ring he gave to Barahir on Beren's hand. Despite that fear, he went. He tried to be brave for all who followed. He tried to not show that he was afraid, but he was. Nobody saw that he wept – the darkness covered his tears.

"Did… Did you meet her?" Aegnor asked anxiously after his brother returned.

"Yes," Finrod nodded sympathetically. "She is a wise woman."

"Tell me all about it. How did she take it?"

"Patience, Aikanáro. Let us discuss this in my study, not in the stable."

"Ah. Right. I should let you change, I guess…"

Finrod smiled slightly. "You probably should." He patted the horse's neck, and left her to the stable hand to care for her. Then he headed to his rooms to change from the travel-stained clothes. Aegnor watched him for a moment and then went straight to Finrod's study to wait for him there. Finrod knew that his brother was impatient and he should hurry, but he needed more time to think about his talk with Andreth.

When he finally arrived at his study, Aegnor awaited him with a glass of wine. He took it thankfully, and sat down in the chair. He looked at his brother from above the rim of the glass. Aegnor had a strange fire in him. He never did anything without putting his whole heart into it. And that whole heart loved Andreth, a woman from the House of Bëor. "She understands," he said quietly after a moment of silence. "She is still bitter, but she understands."

"Did you explain to her that… that I love her? That I just can't take a wife during the war? That I will never take any other?"

"Yes, brother. I explained it to her. We talked a lot, about many things. About death and mortality. About the different fate of our races. You are an elda, and for both of you, you have withdrawn. She understands that now. But she is an adaneth, and would give everything for a year, a day with you."

Aegnor looked down. "It is war," he said quietly, regretfully. "It's not time to take a wife, to take her into a life of fearing and waiting to become a widow. And I… I don't want to watch her die, either…"

"It's better to have a memory that is fair but unfinished than one that goes on to a grievous end," Finrod added quietly. "That last evening by the water of Aeluin in which you saw her face mirrored with a star caught in her hair…"

"Yes," Aegnor whispered shakily. "A memory to carry until the end of Arda."

Finrod took a sip of his wine. "Mortals do not live with memories as much as we do," he said thoughtfully. "They live for the present, for the little time they have. We look at Arda like ones who are at home, but their eyes hold the wonder of a guest and visitor to a foreign country. Where their true home is, they do not know, and neither do anyone of us. But maybe, after the Music comes to its fulfilment and our home ends, we will meet there, and the wonder of guests will be in our eyes."

"Will she be there?" Aegnor asked quietly.

Finrod smiled a little sadly. "She promised she will await us. You – and me."

"Beren…" Finrod whispered hoarsely, his voice coarse with thirst and disuse. It was his first word since Sauron defeated his song and they were all thrown into darkness.

Silence answered him. Several long moments of silence. For a terrible while he thought that Beren was dead. That the beast had taken him, or he had died of thirst and hunger. Mortals were so fragile… But then a voice answered. "Y-Yes?"

Finrod sighed with relief. "I just wanted to know… that you are with me…" he said, sounding more like a scared elfling than the elf lord he was.

Beren tried to reach to him in the darkness, but his shackles were too short for that. "I'm sorry…" he whispered. "I'm sorry for asking for your help and bringing you here. You are immortal. Your life has more worth than mine."

"That's not true, Beren," Finrod said, sounding like the king of Nargothrond again. "That's not true…"

Aegnor and Angrod were dead. He remembered them in the days of the innocence and bliss of Aman, running with wooden swords through the halls of his father's palace while he tried to read poetry. He remembered them in Middle-earth after what seemed like ages later, leading the troops to battle, fierce and tall in their shining armour. He remembered the love in Aegnor's eyes when speaking about Andreth. And now they were gone. Dead. He knew he would meet them again in Mandos, but his heart refused to comprehend that. They were dead, and Mandos was far away, in another life and another land.

The loss was still raw, but it seemed he would follow them soon. The Fen of Serech shall be his grave. He was leading the reinforcements from Nargothrond when Morgoth's forces ambushed him there, and cut him off from the rest of his army. The Elves around him were dying on the spears and axes of their enemies. The mud under his feet turned red. He still fought, but his strength was nearly spent. The sword grew heavy in his hand, and his vision darkened around the edges, like looking through a dark tunnel. Still his shield deflected the blows of the enemy, but it was cracking, and his shield-hand was numb from their force.

At the end of the tunnel that was his view of the battlefield, he suddenly saw something unexpected. At the last moment, someone rushed to his rescue. Someone attacked his attackers from behind and tried to cut a way through them. With renewed vigour, Finrod raised his shield and sword, and with the last remnants of his strength he managed to make his way to the reinforcements, meeting them half-way. He recognized the banner of the house of Bëor before he stumbled with weariness. But then a living wall of spears was made around him. The Men in it were falling, taking heavy losses from Morgoth's servants, but the wall held. Finrod wanted to scream at them to not risk their lives for him, but he was barely able to stand on his feet.

And then they were out of the battle, and there were no more enemies around. The cost was heavy. Only a few of the Elves and about two dozen Men remained on their feet. Someone approached Finrod, sitting slumped in the red mud. "Are you hurt, my lord?" he asked.

Finrod looked up slowly, tiredly. "Not badly…" he breathed out. "Without you and your men, I would be dead. Who are you?"

"I'm Barahir from the House of Bëor," the Man introduced himself.

Finrod seemed to recognize the name. "Andreth's nephew…" he murmured.

"Indeed, my lord," the Man nodded. "Shall I call a healer to look at you?" he asked with some concern.
"No," Finrod shook his head firmly. "Let him tend to your own wounded. You paid with too many losses for my rescue. I cannot thank you enough…"

"Not so, my lord," Barahir replied. "Your life is more precious than ours. Where we can lose mere decades, you would lose thousands of years. We are going to die anyways, so why not give our death a meaning?"

"No, Barahir. You risked and gave your lives for me, the precious limited years you have to explore the wonders of Arda. If I die, my spirit will be still bound to it, and maybe returns to walk under its stars one again, but your spirits leave it forever. You gave much more to me today than I can ever repay. But take this ring," he said, taking the ring from his finger, two intertwined serpents with eyes of green jewels. "May it be a sign of eternal friendship between our houses, and an heirloom to your descendants. If you or anyone wearing this ring comes to me in need of aid, I shall not refuse, so I swear to you."

Barahir took the ring reverently, and put it on his finger. "Thank you, my lord," he bowed his head.

"Just Finrod, please…"

There were only two of them left – Beren and himself. Every time the werewolf had come, he had taken one of their companions. Every time he heard that dark growl, Finrod froze with fear, expecting to feel the sharp teeth tearing into his flesh in any moment – or even worse, taking Beren. Every time his face twisted in anguish as he heard the screams, the tearing of flesh and crushing of bones. Fear covered them all like a thick, cold blanket, and yet all of his companions stayed true. None of them revealed the purpose of their quest to their tormentor. It was the echo of his song that gave them all the will to resist – a song of trust unbroken, secrets kept. But now all their companions were dead, and the next time the werewolf came, one of them would feel its teeth.

"Are you afraid of death?" Beren asked him quietly, the only friendly voice in the ever-present darkness.

"No…" Finrod whispered. "And yes," he added after a moment. There was no place for pretence anymore. "I'm afraid of the end of Arda. We Eldar are bound to it, and if something lies beyond that for us, we do not know. But of the death now I am not afraid. My spirit will stay in this world, and through Mandos, I may meet my loved ones again. But I'm afraid of dying…"

"Me too," Beren admitted. "I don't want to die. But I would rather die a thousand deaths than never meet Lúthien. I am glad that I could see her and love her… if only for a little while. I just regret that you have to die with me…"

"I regret nothing," Finrod said quietly. "Only that I failed to aid you."

"You did everything you could. You stayed with me… until the end. For me, your oath is fulfilled," Beren said earnestly.

Finrod did not reply to that, only sighed heavily.

Then they heard the growl again. Finrod could feel the hair on the top of his neck standing up, and cold sweat covering his palms. The evil eyes appeared in the darkness, and he saw his death in them. The beast neared to him, and he was helpless, in expectation of pain. The werewolf sniffed, his teeth only an inch from Finrod's throat. He felt the drool of the beast falling on his chest.

But then he growled again, and turned away from Finrod. Beren gulped heavily, but did not make any other sound as the servant of Sauron neared him.

But Finrod felt a surge of rage overtaking him. "You will not have him, you filthy beast, do you hear me?!" he cried out in despair. "Take me! Take me instead!"

The glistening eyes turned to him for a moment, but then they focused on Beren again. Finrod furiously struggled with his bonds. No! You won't take his life! – he thought, focusing all his strength into the struggle, so he had none left for words. He is a mortal, and has only a little time on Arda! You will not take that from him! You will not take the fate he has to fulfil! He is my… – the chain snapped. Finrod was free! He did not stop to think about it, but threw himself at the werewolf – …my friend!

He fought with his nails and teeth against the teeth and claws of the werewolf. They bore into his skin and tore his flesh, but he paid no attention to pain. There was an oath he had to fulfil, a friend he had to protect. He tasted blood – his own, and the one of the beast. All his strength, all his despair he put into the fight. Not thinking anymore, just fighting. Not trying to survive, just killing the beast. The light of Valinor was in his eyes, shining in the darkness. He knew he was dying, but he was no longer afraid. He was dying for something, and he could not fail. Only when he felt that the dark body beneath his did not draw breath did his strength left him. The pain was sharp and consuming, but strangely distant, just like Beren's voice weeping above him. Then it all faded, and peace enveloped him. He fulfilled his oath.

The sea in Alqualondë was calm and deeply blue like the night sky at midsummer. Finrod stood on the beach, letting the waves wash his bare feet. His spirit had passed through the Halls of Mandos and was reborn again in Aman, in the land of his youth that he often thought wistfully about. But now his gaze was turned east. There, beyond the Sundering seas, lay Middle-earth. He remembered Bëor and Andreth, Barahir and Beren. He knew he would never see anyone of their kind again.

But as he was watching the sea, it seemed to him that he saw something strange – a point of bright light, far in the distance. He watched it intently, and after some time he recognized a white ship, carrying the light. The sail was woven of silver threads, but torn, as if it had faced many storms, and the prow had the shape of a swan. But the light was what most drew his eyes. It was bright and pure, reminding him of the light of the Trees. He recognized it. It was the reason for their exile. It was the reason why Beren requested his aid on his quest. Not in Morgoth's crown, but free, sailing on a white ship towards the shores of Valinor. It was a Silmaril.

Finrod smiled with astonishment. "So you did it, Beren…" he whispered. "You did it…" And while he wondered who it is sailing with the holy jewel, an echo of words sounded in his mind. "When you go to the sea, you will remember me. It will be as if I am with you," Bëor told him before his death. He had had no time to go to the sea while he still lived in Middle-earth. There was too much work with his own kingdom, and with the fight against Morgoth. Now was the first time he listened to the song of the sea since that moment when he first experienced the death of a mortal friend. He watched the ship approaching the white shores, and remembered them all, the faces of those who were only guests and visitors on Arda, and who had taught him so much about the value of life. No, he regretted nothing.