A Different Kind of Hell [ Silmarillion ] 3

Chapter 20: An Unmistakable Refrain

Year 5 of the First Age

THANGORODRIM 

Finno doubted the stones beneath his hand had heard music ever before. It pierced the darkness. Ignoring the way the acrid air burned his throat, he continued his song of bliss long lost, of shining trees and jeweled beaches with docks made from ivory and pearl. He clutched his lyre to his chest as he pulled himself up another small shelf in the mountainside. 

Still more beautiful than his verse came the weak but unmistakable refrain from his cousin. For hours, they had traded melodies. He couldn't be far now. Somewhere beneath this choking darkness, Nelyo clung to life.

He couldn't be far. The orcs cowered in their tunnels, fear of light, of goodness, rooting them to the spot. But Finno would not cower. He would find his cousin.

The winds tossed loose strands of hair into his face. They had escaped his braids and nearly blinded him, so fierce were the gales in this crevice. 

He stood upon a large shelf which slanted ever so slightly to the East, seemingly made of slabs that had fallen and been wedged between two sharp cliff faces. Gravel crunched beneath his scuffed up boots. A slight bloody tang filled his mouth. The dry, nearly acidic smoke from Angband had cracked his lips. 

Still he sang. His lungs ached. His fingers burned. But Finno lifted his head high, scanning the grey and snow-tinged rocks towering on either side of this oddly valley-like shelf. He wondered, as he saw how smooth the sides were, if some weapon wielded by the Ainur had carved this out in the Ages before peace.

Overwhelming anxiety filled his body. His voice faltered, his fingers stilled. In this vale of stone amidst Thangorodrim, his chest tightened. Muscles ached. He was but a single elf, one voice amidst a world carved out by Valar and Maiar, powers far beyond him. 

Then came the refrain. Finno's heart leapt. He opened his eyes. Where did it come from? He had a mission, he had a cousin, a brother, to rescue. He could not afford to despair. And yet, when his eyes found Nelyo, he felt the wave of despair crash over him once more.

He dropped the lyre. It clattered against the stone. But all he could do was cover his mouth and resist the tears that threatened to blur his vision. How could he sing? 

Finno looked upon a corpse. Hanging by a wrist, the emaciated body of Nelyafinwë swayed against the rock. Finno could count every rib, every bone in his body. His red hair had been hacked off. It fell now to just below his chin. 

Still, Finno could not speak, could not sing. If not for the harmonies that Nelyo had spun over the last few days, he would not, could not, have believed he lived. But then his eyes opened. The fire in him still smoldered. Finno could see it. But it waned.

Any bitterness left in his heart burned away. Nelyo had not traversed the Grinding Ice, had not watched Elenwë drown. No. He had fought against the flames of Morgoth, watched as they stole his youngest brother from him.

They were Morgoth's flames. Not Fëanáro's. Fëanáro had lost everything to those flames, too. To the Enemy, the Liar, the Black Foe.

Hatred raged in his heart. Finno could feel his chest burning, as he let his hands fall from his mouth at last. He took a few steps forward, never looking away from his cousin.

He had done this, and he alone. Morgoth had spun the lies. Morgoth had turned them against each other. Morgoth had pushed them to rebel, to take up arms, to slaughter their kin. None of the Noldor had escaped his corruption. 

Itarillë had lost her mother to Morgoth's flames. Turvo had lost a wife. He had lost a sister. 

There were no handholds on the clifface. Finno ran along the edge, where it swept up hundreds of feet. He couldn't find a way. He had to find a way. But all he found were bloody cuts along his palms and ripped off finger nails from his failures.