83: Rescue

They did not have to wait long before they heard the kidnappers coming. Elves they may have been, but they were clumsy with prisoners who were bound and blindfolded and one was perhaps unconscious, for they could see someone being carried.

“Lasgalad,” Finrod whispered to Alassiel and Sador. They nodded.

They could hear a smattering of curses from captors and captives alike as they stumbled along the rock strewn riverbed. Finrod couldn’t help smiling at hearing Laurendil scathingly telling whoever was leading him that he didn’t have the brains Eru had given to moss after nearly falling to his knees when he misstepped on the loose shale. His captor didn’t even bother to apologize, but dragged him along.

Sador leaned close to Finrod to whisper in his ear. “They act more like orcs than elves.”

Finrod nodded but did not answer, concentrating on keeping an eye on the group below. Even in starlight he could see that there were close to fifty elves, not including the five prisoners. He was rather surprised, not that there were so many, but that there were so few, considering they had hoped, no doubt, to take all the Amanians, or at least the leaders. He and Glorfindel alone could have taken on half of them without any problem and he knew that the other warriors among them would have easily handled the rest. It made no sense, but then none of this made sense. This entire scenario was insane. What did these people hope to gain, other than the ire of the three kings of Eldamar?

He shook his head slightly to clear it of thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. He knew that Ulcuroitar and Fionwë were in position blocking the retreat. Manveru had outlined a plan which Finrod had approved. With any luck not a single arrow would be shot, not a single sword would be lifted in either defense or attack and the prisoners would not suffer any harm. Having Maiar on your side definitely put the odds in your favor.

The kidnappers and their prisoners were now nearly aligned with the boulder behind which Finrod crouched. He stood up and stepped around it, Alassiel and Sador following him. “That’s far enough,” Finrod called out in Sindarin. “Release your prisoners and surrender peacefully for you are surrounded.”

If he had expected the kidnappers to comply immediately, he was sorely disappointed.

“Never!” one of them screamed and there was a note of desperation in his voice. Suddenly swords were being pulled out of scabbards, glinting in the starlight.

Finrod blinked, unsure he had heard correctly. What madness was this? Then, an arrow whistled past him from behind and landed squarely between the legs of the person who had yelled his defiance. There was a pause as the elves below stared at the arrow in disbelief.

“The next one will land a little higher,” a voice rang out coldly.

Beleg. Finrod smiled as he shook his head. Trust the former Marchwarden not to follow the plan they had devised. Oh well. Taking advantage of the silence, Finrod spoke again. “He means what he says. Drop your weapons and surrender. I give you my word....”

“Your word means nothing to us, Amanian,” the same ellon growled. Even with just starlight to illuminate the scene Finrod could tell he was a Noldo with his dark hair. “And you seem to forget we have hostages. Do you truly wish to see them harmed?”

Finrod frowned, though no one could see. “If so much as a single hair on their heads is out of place, you will learn what it means to earn the wrath of Finrod Felagund.” The absolute coldness of his tone gave even his own people pause, never mind the kidnappers.

“That’s telling them, Finrod,” he heard Laurendil call out, sounding gleeful.

“Silence!” someone ordered and they could all hear the smack of a hand hitting a cheek.

Now Finrod was angry, and that was a dangerous emotion for him to feel at this time. He took a couple of deep centering breaths before he was able to bring himself back to clarity of purpose. Anger had no place in this situation. Only reasoned calm would get them out of it with minimum harm to everyone. He truly did not wish to hurt these fools. Memories of the Kinslaying at Alqualondë rose in his mind and he had to suppress a shudder.

“What do you want?” Finrod finally asked. “Why have you taken our friends?”

“We want no interference from you Amanians,” the answer came from the same ellon who had spoken first. He appeared to be their leader. “Leave Tol Eressëa by the next sunset or you’ll never see your friends again.”

Something in the ellon’s voice convinced Finrod that, whoever these elves were, they were not true warriors, for all that they carried swords. There was something he was missing in all this, some piece of the puzzle he could not see. Why did the Valar send six Maiar to aid him? Not that he objected. Finrod would have followed the kidnappers along the riverbed hoping to catch up to them, but Cassantur bringing them along the north rim of the ravine to this place had saved a lot of time. So he was grateful, but he was also wary. Something about this entire scenario just didn’t add up. What was it Ingil had said about Lord Irmo taking a dim view of his people being kidnapped? That right there seemed odd. Why would the Valar act when Laurendil and the others were taken but not when it had happened to Sador or Glorfindel? What was their agenda in all this?

And then there was that note of desperation that Finrod had detected in the kidnapper’s voice. These people were frightened, it seemed, but of what? Or whom?

“I am sorry,” Finrod said sadly, “but I am afraid that will not be possible.” He drew out his sword and headed down to the floor of the ravine. Alassiel and Sador followed him, their own swords drawn. Finrod could tell that both were surprised, for it had not been a part of the original plan.

As he passed the boulder where Glorfindel was hiding, he gave his gwador a nod, and Glorfindel stepped out with sword drawn as well, followed hastily by Ingwion. The two Maiar stayed where they were. Then all the other elves in Finrod’s party came out of hiding, joining them as they made their way down to the kidnappers, who now were backing away to the other side of the ravine, pushing their prisoners with them.

“What do you mean to do?” the leader snarled. “We out number you nearly two to one and we have your friends. It is you who should surrender and let us go.”

“No,” Finrod said softly. “That will never happen. Will you truly damn yourselves as kinslayers?”

“Who is to say we aren’t already?” the ellon retorted, his voice bleak.

Finrod paused in his advance. “Who are you?” he asked softly.

“It matters not,” the ellon said.

“It matters much,” Finrod retorted. “Come, let us parlay.” He sheathed his sword and took a single step forward, motioning with his hands to the others to stay back.

For a moment there was no movement from the other group and then the leader sheathed his own sword and stepped forward. Finrod advanced a few more steps and the other ellon did the same until the two were facing each other across a space of a couple of feet.

“Are you truly Finrod Felagund?” the ellon asked quietly for his ears alone.

Finrod nodded. “And you? Who are you?”

For a moment or two the ellon did not answer, but finally he gave a sigh. “A mulóldhel,” he answered, refusing to look at him.

Finrod felt his blood run cold. The utter bleakness and despair of the ellon’s tone shook him. “You are not!” he said fiercely. “You are free.”

The ellon looked up, his dark eyes glittering in the starlight. “Am I? Are any of us?”

“What do you mean?” Finrod asked in confusion.

The ellon gestured with his chin to the elves behind him. “Most of us were enslaved by Morgoth,” he said in an emotionless tone, as if what he would impart was too horrific and beyond any sane emotion. “Many of us managed to escape after a time, the rest were freed by the Maiar during the War of Wrath. None of us were welcomed by our fellow elves. We were looked upon with suspicion. It was feared that Morgoth had suborned us and that at the wrong moment we would turn on our fellow elves.” He paused, giving a sigh before resuming his narrative. “It didn’t matter that we wished to fight; no one would accept us into their company, so we ended up banding together. When the war ended and the invitation was made to come here, we took it, thinking that now that Morgoth was gone it would be clear that we were no threat to others, but even here we were shunned. So, we founded our own village.”

“Angobel,” Finrod said and the other ellon gave him a surprised look but nodded.

“Yes. Most of us had been sent to the mines. It was all we really knew so we found an area of the island rich in mineral ore and established a mining town.”

“Why all this, though?” Finrod asked, nodding towards where he could see his friends in the midst of the miners.

“When we learned that you Amanians were here, we feared that once you learned who we were our lives would not be worth much,” the ellon explained, his voice full of bitterness. “We are barely tolerated by the other Tol Eressëans and we have to sell our ores through third parties and at a loss for if they knew where the ores came from....” He shrugged.

Finrod scowled. “Do you think that I, who once ruled Nargothrond, who died in Sauron’s dungeon to save the life of a Mortal, would allow any to persecute you? Does my word mean so little to you?”

The ellon shook his head. “We just want to be left alone,” he said. “Your coming here with your talk of a central government and trading agreements.... do you think anyone would let us join such a government or allow us to negotiate for trade? As long as things remain as they are, we’re safe and no one bothers us... much.”

Finrod stared at the ellon. “What is your name?”

“Marthchall.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow. “I cannot believe that is your real name.”

“It is the name I have chosen for myself,” Marthchall snarled. “It is what my life has been since I was foolish enough to defy the Valar.”

“Under whose banner did you march?” Finrod asked, curious to know as much about this tortured soul as possible.

Marthchall hesitated for a brief second before answering. “I marched under Lord Maedhros’ banner. I was taken captive during the Dagor-nuin-Giliath. I managed to escape during the time of the Dagor Aglareb when Morgoth’s eyes were elsewhere.”

“I am sorry,” Finrod said sorrowfully, knowing that his words were inadequate, but needing to say something.

Marthchall shrugged.

Finrod glanced around and shook his head. “This is no place for talking. Come. Let us all return to Avallónë. I, who was once King of Nargothrond, give you my word that you and your people will be given a fair hearing.”

“And then what?” Marthchall demanded. “Do you really think once word gets out of what we’ve done that any will show us mercy?”

“That’s a risk you must take,” Finrod said, “but if you continue as you have, mercy is less assured.”

Marthchall closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging. “You are right, of course. We were fools to even attempt this, but we were desperate and fearful that any change would prove detrimental to us. We’re barely getting by as it is.”

“Let us return to my adar and daeradar,” Finrod said quietly. “Let us sit down and discuss this as reasonable people. I promise you, I will do all I can to help you and your people. You have the word of Finrod Felagund, if that means anything to you.”

“It does,” Marthchall said firmly. He took a step back and drew his sword. Finrod motioned with his hands to his people not to move, though he had no doubt that Beleg at least had an arrow trained on the former mólanoldo. Then Marthchall reversed the sword so that its hilt was pointed towards Finrod.

“No, Marthchall!” one of the ellyn from Angobel cried, sounding nearly in tears.

Marthchall gave Finrod a grim look and the ellon reached out and accepted the sword. Marthchall then went back to his group and embraced the ellon who had cried out. “It’s all right, Gurthalion,” he whispered. “It’s going to be all right.”

“But we outnumbered them,” Gurthalion cried. “Please Marthchall. I don’t... I don’t want to be enslaved again.”

Finrod’s expression tightened. “No one will enslave you,” he said harshly. “And I am afraid that in spite of appearances we are the ones who outnumber you.”

Marthchall turned, still holding on to Gurthalion, giving him a puzzled look. “What do you mean? There are fifty of us and only about twenty of you.”

Now Finrod smiled, though it was not a warm smile. “We... um... brought reinforcements. Six Maiar, to be precise.”

“Seven, actually.”

And there in their midst stood Eönwë gravely gazing upon them all. The Amanians gave him respectful bows. The elves of Angobel moaned and cowered against the ravine wall. The other Maiar also appeared and they cowered even more. Eönwë’s gaze softened to compassion.

“Fear not, Children,” he said. “No harm will come to you if you will surrender unto Lord Finrod.”

“I have already given him my sword,” Marthchall stated. “I am the leader of these ellyn. I surrender us to thee, my Lord Finrod Felagund, and release unto thee our prisoners.” He nodded and with a sigh his people began unbinding the prisoners, while Finrod’s group went about collecting their weapons.

As soon as the prisoners were released, Eärnur, Laurendil and Manwen all went to the still unconscious Lasgalad, ignoring everyone else, as they determined the state of his health. Edrahil and Iorlas joined Finrod, the former giving his lord a wry grin. “I’d forgotten how exciting life was around you, aran nîn,” he said.

Finrod chuckled. “Everything secured?” he asked.

“All set,” Glorfindel said.

“I’ve put Lasgalad into healing sleep,” Eärnur told Finrod. “He has not suffered too much from this.”

“Good,” Finrod said with a nod. Then he turned to Eönwë and gave him a bow. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord, and for that of your fellow Maiar.”

“We’ll come along,” Eönwë stated with a smile, “just to make sure everyone behaves.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow at the emphasis on ‘everyone’ but refused to comment. “Let us go then,” was all he said, and, since it was an easier route than the riverbed, they all climbed out of the ravine and began making their way back to Avallónë.

****

Words are Sindarin.

Mulóldhel: Sindarin form of the Quenya mólanoldo ‘Noldo slave of Morgoth’. The plural would be mulóhdil. 

Marthchall: ‘Overshadowed (by) Evil Fate’.

Dagor-nuin-Giliath: Battle-under-Stars, the second of the great battles of Beleriand. It occurred three Valian years before the First Rising of Ithil, thus Marthchall was a slave for approximately a century before escaping.

Dagor Aglareb: Glorious Battle, which occurred in the year 75 of the First Age.