Chapter 11: Thangorodrim

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Fingon made his way to the east, across the Ered Wethrin.  After a couple of days, he became confident that no one was following him.  No one would try to sway him from his fool's errand.  As he made camp on the third night, Fingon was genuinely surprised to find e'Narmire standing behind him.  The Vanyar had slipped quietly into Fingon's camp.  It was as if he had appeared from thin air.

"Don't try to stop me, Uncle," declared Fingon once he had caught his breath.  "This is something that must be done.  Disunited, our people do not stand a chance against the Enemy."

With his characteristic stern expression, e'Narmire looked Fingon over.  After a long pause, which Fingon feared would end with his submission to his uncle's will, e'Narmire spoke. 

"What you say is true, Nephew." e'Narmire sat down on a nearby rock as he gathered his thoughts before speaking again.  "Feanor's people have sustained many dead in their battles against Morgoth, and your own host suffered horribly on its journey across the Grinding Ice.  Unless the Noldor are united, you will stand no chance against a renewed attack."

Fingon was surprised by e'Narmire's response.  It was not what he had expected.

"That is why," continued the Vanyar, "that we are not here to stop you, but to aid you in your quest."

"We?" asked Fingon.

e'Narmire let a slight smile slip across his face as he shot a quick glance over his shoulder.  Out of the darkness stepped two of the Companions, Taurensil and Shaelina.  A third figure also emerged, the stout-hearted Naugrim, Curucam.  Telemire was conspicuously absent.  The jewelsmith, despite his pleading with e'Narmire to redeem his failure at protecting Maedhros, had been convinced to stay behind.  He had not yet fully recovered from the wounds he had suffered during the Enemy's treacherous parley.

Taken aback, Fingon was grateful for his uncle's help and gladly accepted it.  Early the next morning, the small army would attempt the impossible and breach the gates of Morgoth's fortress.

The pace was fast and unforgiving.  At a fast jog for nearly the entire journey, Fingon and his small force stopped only for a few hours rest each night.  It was a grueling regimen that taxed the endurance of even the stoutest of Elves.  Even Taurensil, a warrior his entire life and used to the rigors of heavy campaigning, was fighting to keep the pace, occasionally stumbling as his legs gave out.  And to everyone's amazement, Curucam kept the pace, though it was beginning to tell on his portly physique. 

For several days, this tempo was maintained.  Time was of the essence and none could be wasted.  Any moment lost could be Maedhros' last and Fingon was not going to allow that to happen.  He would not allow himself, or any with him, to fail.

Much to his relief, no orc party ventured out from Angband to challenge Fingon.  The Enemy had locked himself away in his mountain fortress, licking his wounds and rebuilding his armies.  His forges had been stoked hotter and were constantly burning, sending huge plumes of smoke and vapor into the skies, blocking out the new Sun.  It was under this very blanket that Fingon and his tiny army slipped into the Enemy's realm, unseen and unknown.

But that was the easy part.  The triple peaks of Thangorodrim were a maze of narrow ledges, twisting crevices, sudden dead-ends, and sheer cliffs that would break a body on the boulders below.  Into this maze, Fingon and the Companions went blindly, searching in vain for any hint of Maedhros.  It soon began to seem hopeless and Fingon started to fall into a deep despair. 

Shaelina could see Fingon's agony and sought a way to lift his spirits the only way she knew how; she pulled her fife from her haversack and began to play softly a song that she had learned from Maglor.  Unconsciously, Fingon took up the song, slowly at first his spirits began to rise.  Then, as if struck by lightning, he frantically took up his harp and played the song as loudly as he could, in defiance of Morgoth and his minions. 

Then he heard what he had been hoping for.  Across the winds, the voice of Maedhros came into Fingon's ears, taking up the song as he and Shaelina played.  Hope was renewed in him and his little army began to follow the pained voice.
Over sharp crags, the tiny company scrambled toward Maedhros in a last ditch effort to reach the Noldor prince.  Bloody hands, scraped knees, and smashed fingers would not stop their ascent.  Maedhros was close and nothing would stand in their way.
Except orcs.

While the music had searched out Maedhros and led the company to him, it had also alerted the Enemy's minions to their presence.  Small bands of orcs came out of hiding to finally challenge them.  At first in pairs, then in pairs of pairs and steadily increasing numbers the orcs came to kill.  But the company continued moving forward. Never stopping to fight for long, their blades bit into the flesh of many of the foul creatures, killing many, but keeping most simply at bay.  But then, another dead end.

A deep gorge now stood between Fingon and his cousin.  A gorge too deep to jump.  There was Maedhros, chained by his right wrist to the side of the mountain, his feet inches off the ground.  So close, yet no way to get to him.  Fingon looked over to e'Narmire, despair overtaking him again.  They had come so far only to fail; the whole venture had been in vain. 

From behind came the clang of steel.  Fingon and e'Narmire turned to see a wave of twenty or more orcs charging up the mountainside.  Taurensil and Shaelina were thinning their numbers with bow fire as Curucam charged in amongst a group of four of the bigger warriors. 

The Naugrim felled them quickly.  Driving his mattock into the groin of the first, he pulled one of his throwing axes from his belt and sent it flying into the chest of the second.  The two remaining orcs checked their advance momentarily at the ferociousness of Curucam's onslaught.  This proved to be a fatal mistake as it gave Curucam time to ready his battle ax for his next attack.  Swinging in a wide arc and screaming his battle cry, Curucam took the leg of the third orc just above the knee and put his shoulder into him, sending him to his death on the rocks below.  The fourth of the big orcs was felled as Curucam's ax split his skull.

"Whatever you are going to do," said e'Narmire as he drew Shadow-cleaver, "you had better do it quickly."  The Vanyar then dashed down the mountain to assist his friends in holding off the orc attack.

With no alternative, Fingon knocked an arrow.  Whispering a prayer to Manwe to make his shot true, he bent his bow and aimed for Maedhros' heart.

The orc assault was renewed.  They charged too quickly for bow fire to slow them, forcing Taurensil to draw his blades and fight hand-to-hand.  Shoulder to shoulder with Curucam and e'Narmire, they sent another score of the enemy to their deaths. 

But still they came, pushing the Eldar and the Naugrim back up the mountain, toward Fingon and the cliff.

Then their attack suddenly stopped.

A shadow passed overhead and all of the combatants looked up.  Eagles.  Thorondor and his brethren soared above, swooping down to grab several orcs with their talons and dropping into the deep canyons.  Four of the eagles glided down to gently pick up e'Narmire and the rear-guard and retreated back toward Mithrim.

Thorondor himself made his way to Fingon, carrying him over to the ledge where Maedhros was chained.  There, after trying to pull Maedhros free, Fingon severed his friend's hand.  The weakened Maedhros fell into Fingon's arms and was lifted onto the back of Thorondor.  With a powerful flap of his giant wings, the King of the Eagles rose into the sky, rejoining the others.

The flight back to the Noldor encampment gave the company a much needed chance to rest.  None of them, save Maedhros, had suffered any serious wounds, but all had deep cuts and scratches on their bodies.  Out of sheer exhaustion, they slept.
e'Narmire awoke just as the Mithrim Encampment came into view.  He asked that all but Fingon and Maedhros be left outside of the encampment.  A request which the eagles granted.  Thorondor would carry the two Noldor princes the entire distance.

Once on the ground, e'Narmire sensed the confusion of the Companions.  He said only that this glory must belong to Fingon alone and that no other should ever learn of their involvement.  As far as any others were concerned, they had only been scouting the boundaries of Angband, fighting a small skirmish with a patrol of orcs, but Fingon and Maedhros would remember their valor in the days to come.

Immediately, they understood e'Narmire's meaning.  Now, maybe the healing of the Noldor would begin.