Of Finrod and Bëor by losselen  

Coda VI: Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor

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.