#balan/finrod

[searchingforserendipity25]

for @eilinelsghost. dear frankie, you are such a genuinely wonderful, talented, amazingly intelligent and kind presence on this hellsite and the world at last, and deserve all things lovely. have some balan/finrod as a humble offering among with all the rest! <33

--

“Very pretty it is, to be sure,” Bëor said, voice rasping low, painfully low in throat eve as his face creased with mirth. “But I am sure I do not know what I would do with a handful of your hair, Felagund! Strange creatures the Eldar be indeed, to so long for that exchange.” 

Finrod's eyes widened. His mouth was less dire than it had been for days, but there was something somber still about the tilt of his brows. 

Balan would feel rather like a fiend to prickle him for his entreaty, if he were not being half-cheated by its terms.

“It is a perfectly common sharing of tokens among my people.” 

“Among my people the throwing of leaves and pointing of fingers is a perfectly common exchange of tokens when one is being a daft liar, too, and I do not think you so eager for that! You fairies are dreadfully jealous of your braids, one and all.” 

Finrod was not bold enough to deny it. Perhaps he was in earnest - the notion only made Balan ache more fiercely. 

They were very careful about their gifts, the two of them, since their first exchanges had ended in mild poisoning, and Finrod finding how very much his constitution disagreed with the smoking pipes the Edain favoured. 

Finrod had been almost diffident in his offer, as he had not been for years. He looked down now at Balan now, palms pressed together in the way Balan had learned he did when he was uncertain of which question to request. 

 “It does happen rarely, and I do not say It is not a tremendous honour. I ask much from one who is dear to me; too much for a whim; and I am sorry for it.” 

Balan sighed. His bones felt too tight. His mouth was parched, but he did not wish to ask for a glass of water, and he was not certain he would be able to cross the room easily; and he was not certain Finrod would be able to withstand it easily. 

Finrod seemed not less brittle to his eyes. Singing too long left the line of his cheeks sharper, his eyes dangerous as wisps of light over bog waters. His dear lord, who had not slept in many nights to keep him from the edge of mortal harm. 

He clasped Finrod’s hand warmly. The fine, long bones stilled for a moment, and then wound between his with accustomed gentleness.

 “It is that must apologize,” Balan said. “Ask what thou wilt as a gift, and never doubt it be thine. Art not not my lord, and my dear friend? It would be a honour to have such a token, for even a meager hair would be a treasure given from thy hands. But I suspect it is not thy people’s way to be light about such thing; and I think fear moves thee in this more than a mere whim. If it is so, I would not have it not be kept silent, and take insidious root.” 

Finrod’s fingers tightened around his. He strove for lightness of tone, and failed as he rarely did when he attempted it. “Thou canst not wonder that I fear! Warm as coal was thy brow, and heard not what I said when I spoke.” 

Balan tilting his head to meet Finrod’s eyes, smiling almost despite himself at the light of love on the king’s face. He bent, and kissed the fine knuckles; and at last Finrod smiled as well. 

Only then when he knew he was heard entirely did he say, “Felagund, dear lord. I am not dying; nay, not yet, and not soon either I judge. This is but a spring cold, from the changing of the wind and the cold air. Dangerous if uncared for; but thou hast cared for me better than ever my people were loved. It shall pass. Indeed, after the songs and pastes and infusions, it is nearly gone already. I would say if it grew worse, be not afraid of that.” 

Balan was struck once again - as he often was - by how real Finrod was, for all his strangeness. This cheekbone was very like his own; the eyes that shone and saw the world in different shades, the quick mind that guessed at the unknowable and predicted past and future. They had made a friendship out of generous wonder in each other and for each other. The last thing he wished was to make Finrod doubt it. 

He found the strands of his head strange tokens to exchange, but it seemed discourteous to refuse the trade outright, when Felagund was so plainly well-meaning.

And so peculiarly covetous, too. Balan was not blind to the way Finrod stood raptly with held breath, whenever he saw him brushing back his hair after swimming, or oiling the strands and redoing the braids by the fire in the evenings. 

He could not say he disliked the attention, that he had not met Finrod’s glances a hundred times.

He could not say the offer was not to him what he knew to be to Finrod - he had seen too many elvish warriors with the braids of their betrotheds carried in medallions about their necks, or kinsmen wound in goldwire and silver, set with amber and pearls around their wrists.

 Solemnly, Finrod brought out one of his many knives. A swift stroke, and one of his impossibly bright braids fell into Balan’s palm; and his own closed around Balan’s own gift. 

Finrod studied it with such care, Bëor's spindly, bristling braid, the gray threaded with the fading fairness of his hair. 

Balan looked at his hand, a little disbelieving. More beautiful than gold was that slender braid, enthralling as the stars, thin and fine as spidersilk - Balan had stared at it as often as Finrod looked at him in admiration.

 It was not less lovely for being in his hand, and seemed all the more startling in its beauty; but Balan’s eyes were still, always, for the curling strands that framed Finrod’s temples, the fine lashes that kissed his cheeks.  

How strange it was, that all the brightness in him should be turned to him, bent like a candlewick under the weight of its own flame. All the time he had known Finrod he had seen him lonesome among his people, lordly and unwed, brushing his own hair alone; and it had wounded him from the first.

For all the differences between them, that particular loneliness was something Balan recognized so well.

His hand fit so well in Balan's, all the same. He had held him for days and day, without letting go: whenever Balan was strong enough to open his eyes, he had seen him - his golden braids fraying, unattended, as he willed Balan to live. 

In the delirium of his fever Balan had dreamed foul dreams. It had felt to him as if a great darkness had descended upon Finrod, as if great walls of stone parted them; crushed, limbs heavy, he had cried out. Reached for him, as if were being chased by a prowling thing, and growing ever more distant; and now he saw, clear as grass, a mirrored anguish in the way Finrod held Balan's cut braid as if it were half an heirloom already. 

"Thank thee," Finrod said, grave as if it were a rite.

“I am very generous,” Balan agreed, teasing as well as he could. His heart pressing painfully against his ribs. He felt feverish still, with fear and boldness now; but he had to speak, say this much at least. “But I fear I am about to be more outrageous still; for there is beauty greater still I would have, still. Among my people, embraces are also exchanged as tokens, between friends who hold each other dear.”

Finrod's breathing hitched and ceased again.

He did not say he had heard the words unspoken. He did not speak of death; or love. The gift his people gave and traded as promises unspooled itself in Balan’s hand, and nothing like an oath came with it; but Balan needed nothing of the like tonight.

If it was greedy to ask for more, it would be cruel to give less, when even his ageless face was dimned with the weariness of the vigil he had kept by Balan's side, his shoulders tight with fear. 

“So it is, among my people as well,” said Finrod, and stopped, until Balan thought he would turn his face away, and rise, and hide the dark rope of Balan’s hair away forever to be wept over in days and years to come.

But the grip between Balan’s fingers eased, then grew stronger again. Finrod bent down over the bedside; until Balan touched the living strands of his hair, entwined his fingers about it.

That was too much. The dark braid was set aside carefully; and then, swiftly, with a surge of urgency, Finrod held him. Laid his hands over his back, feeling the movement of his heart and lungs; and Balan stroked his head with its wisps of shorn hair, eased his fear as well as he could.

Tomorrow, the cedarwod casket that held Balan's pins and rings, Belen's childhood gifts of bone-whistles and Baran's prettiest pebbles would receive a new, no less beloved treasure. Tomorrow, Finrod would hide the stands of Beren's hair away in truth, somewhere secret and well-kept where tokens of love could be held without marring for many centuries.

For tonight they could give each other this gift - grasp tight, and not let go until the sun rose over the mountain.

[thelien-art]

hi! I love your pride month ask event so much and now I finally have a fan account and can participate this year :) could i put in a request for bi bëor? bi bëor has taken over my brain since reading the atandil series and now I cant think of him any other way <3

thanks for running this every year! such a great event

He is my nr 1 human :) - I used this request to try and play around with his design, as I like to see him a bit playful at times, anyway him in clothes picked out by Finrod

I like this design for him when visiting Finrod but not as a "wild man" :)

I drew the flag before I thought of the cape

🏳️‍🌈CELEBRATE PRIDE WITH ME🏳️‍🌈 - send in a character or a ship with a pride flag and I´ll draw it

Also maybe this Ask?

I wanted to play around a bit with only Beor but I´m adding this ask I haven´t deleted it so I might get around it still just for safety

[velvet4510]

It’s often said that Beren and Lúthien were the very first Man and Elf to fall in love but that is misinformation and in actuality Balan/Bëor and Finrod were the very first Man and Elf to fall in love and no I will not be accepting questions at this time.

[that-angry-noldo]

yapper/listener (mom said it was my turn to infodump)

happy birthday beloved @eilinelsghost!! thank you for being such an amazing friend, and i wish you the best in the following year <3 please accept this offering of dorks in love and may they bring you much joy always!

[actual-bill-potts]

The Man opened his eyes. Before him was an Elf, tall and golden. He was holding a harp.

There was wonder in the Man’s face. "Art thou a god?" he breathed.

The breath caught in the Elf’s throat. "Nay, nay! A friend only."

"But thou art so beautiful."

A brief laugh, quickly cut off. "Thine eyes are too kind."

"Not so! Thou’rt a vision. And visions thou hast conjured. Thy music is lovely, it has moved me to tears," and indeed there were tears flowing from the Man’s eyes.

"Nay, nay!" the Elf repeated, hastily. "Do not cry! I will play something happier."

The Man shook his head. "Play what thou wilt, it is beautiful. I felt as though I were walking in a dream." Doubt stole onto his face. "Do I dream still?"

"Thou art awake, I promise! I had not meant to transport thee so."

The Man hummed. "Mine eyes are heavy still. Wilt thou be here when I wake?"

"Of course; how could I leave? Only please, do not sleep just yet. There is so much I wish to ask thee!"

The Man chuckled. "An odd sort of god, who is so curious."

"I am no god, as I said - merely an Elf - and I have never met anyone else like thee."

"Nobody? I am flattered." The Man’s eyes softened in wonder again. "Thou art light made flesh! Art sure I do not dream?"

"I am sure."

"And thou wilt be here when I awake from slumber? My people have journeyed far. I am weary!"

"Of course. I can hardly leave now! Thou holdest me fast."

"Very well. I trust thee! How could the author of such beautiful music speak false?"

"I would not speak false," said the Elf softly. "Not to thee. Thou art a wonder."

The Man chuckled. "I have not heard that before! But I thank thee." His eyes drifted closed.

"Why must thou sleep?" said the Elf. "Please, let us speak awhile yet!"

"I am weary," said the Man. "But stay by me. Leave not! Anon we shall have converse again."

"I will not leave," said the Elf.

The Man smiled; then his face relaxed into sleep.

And Nóm guarded the sleep of Balan’s folk till they arose in the light of dawn, playing a song of the stars.

And Finrod guarded the last sleep of Bëor, playing a song of the stars, till dawn came and it was time to prepare the body for burial.

[havenotwillnotreadthebooks]

Because i’m a sucker for elf/man reunions-

AU where; after all the elves left middle-earth, the mannish kingdoms still told stories of their departed elven-friends, and families pass on stories (from domestic to epic) about the elves, about particular elves who were friends of their ancestors.

The Men talk about the Elves as time goes on, keeping history records from fading into obscurity and keeping personal gifts from an elf to their long-departed ancestor in good condition. Men remember the Elves.

And one day, it’s after The End, after Morgoth has broken through the gate of night and gotten shoved back in still bleeding ooze from Turambar’s sword, and the second singing starts.

The Men are returned to Middle-Earth, the Elves reawaken in Valinor.

Only, this time, there is no ban from the Valor against going across the sea.

The elves return to middle-earth, expecting to need an entire argument about why they should be allowed to settle into a few random forests, but instead the Kingdoms of Men are like “welcome back, friends.”

The scenes that can come from this range from funny to angsty like-

Elrond, about to ask for an inn to stay in while meeting all his daughter’s (and adoptive son’s) descendants: I can stay anywhere really

The Kings and Queens of Men, who grew up with stories about Elrond Peredhel: Don’t worry about that we kept your Valley clean while you were away.

Elrond: o.O

Also

Finrod, tearfully: i’m sorry I couldn’t keep your people safe.

The Beorians, who know Exactly how Nóm died: shut up and get hugged.

And

Caranthir: i don’t expect you to love me anymore-

Haleth: [immediately slaps him] dumbass [kisses him]

And of course-

Elrond, just talking to someone: oh yeah the trees do feel kinda different-

Elros, running full speed at his twin: [football (usa ver) tackles Elrond to the ground] :DDD

[dalliansss]

“You have never known love!” Egg screams at him. All the screaming prompts Angrod to rush into the room with Edhellos, and in a panic, he looks from Finrod to Egg and back, unsure which brother to pacify first. But in the end he decides to run to Finrod and Edhellos runs to Egg, and they struggle to keep the two apart. “You who have only ever existed for yourself! What do you know of love when even now you pull Curufinwë into sin, when you spit at Amarië with every living second–!”

“I will not give you permission to wed!” Finrod roars back, rage in his eyes and demeanor. “I will never allow your betrothal and your wedding, for as long as you and I both live! Never! You hear me?! Never!”

“Get out of my land–!” Egg screams. “Get out of Dorthonion–!”

“Ha! You send me out? I am your King, your liege-lord! You hold Dorthonion only because I will it! I am the Head of your House, and no marriage will take place between you and this adaneth, ever! I swear it!”

Angrod manages to bodily pull him from the room in a feat of strength. Though his words are true – that his brothers are his vassals, it is Finrod who leaves Dorthonion that same day, opting to return to Nargothrond. He does not even remember making the journey. He is fueled by anger and fear, such terrible fear. 

If Egg forsakes the immortality of the Eldar in such a mindless, thoughtless decision, and he too suffers the same fate Balan did – growing old, sick, and weak, eventually forgetting anything, blind – Finrod knows he will most certainly die from grief very close afterward. He will not live through such a loss. Not Egg’s loss. Not the brother whom he raised as a son.

It was unfair of Egg to ask him this.

To accede to his wish to die?

And for what? For an adaneth he met in only one day, spent time with less than a month, whom he says he thinks he loves?

Egg hurt Finrod today more than all the sorrows the world has thrown against him so far ever did.

[withered / AO3]

@skaelds

[theoppositeofprofound]

Hair kink this, hair kink that, you know what elves definitely have a situation with? Balding.

Finrod, twisting his hands in his lap, staring at Balan’s receding hairline: Haha, so your physical form reflects the trials of your youth as your hair grows grey and actually disappears? Vanity declines while wisdom rises to take its place and everyone knows that you’re aging, there are physical signs of the stress you’ve been through. Oh, no, that sounds sooo terrible.

Balan: Yes, you can touch my bald spot.

[eilinelsghost]

forst sentence: "Balan found Finarfin and Finrod similar, yet different, too"

(yes i Will be going for scraps of the valinor fix it)

Balan found Finarfin and Finrod similar, yet different too. It unnerved him each morning to be greeted by the same quick smile across the breakfasting table, to find that table laid with those same berries he knew from Nargothrond, the same fresh loaf and pitcher of spiced cream. This latter was another echo too, of the shared compassion that had led both son and father to learn at once which of his people's food Balan favored and ensure a sampling was present at every meal – small gestures, but ones that grounded him and sang of his own belonging.

Some days he would nearly forget, with the presence beside him half-familiar, the cloud of gold in the periphery of his vision, the taste of khüld and bread upon his tongue; but the Ñoldóran was still waters, wide and deep, and Nóm had been a dancing stream, ever fay and swift and filled with laughter – and that contrast never let him forget for long.

Yet as the years drew on, Balan sought his companionship more and more often, for despite his initial unease, there was comfort in the quietude, and in the still presence the burden of patience was easier to bear.

And so they smiled a greeting each morning across the berries and Atani bread, they spoke or they did not, they sat in the sun or by the harbors or in the starlight, and with the memory each drew from the other they found renewed solace - and they waited.

[melestasflight]

Composing the Annals of Beleriand

600 words. Finrod returns home to Amarië. On AO3 Originally written for @cuarthol / @nothinghereisworking, inspired by two beautiful pieces of art: cuarthol's own Finrod creating illustrated manuscripts and @alystraea's Finrod sculpting a bust of Amarië in Nargothrond.

At sunrise, Finrod stands before the western gates of Valmar, eyes unmoving upon the green mound of Ezellohar. Naught remains but the crystalized trunks of the Trees where they had stood splendidly. Their ancient bodies, much like his own, are relics of a time long passed, of splendor and cruelty the likes of which few of those who remained in Aman can imagine.  

Arien’s early flame scorches the gloomy memories from his mind, and his eyes turn to seek her warmth at last. He is one of the Sun now and has long been. Sunlight has grown in his heart since the first time he plucked the strings of Bëor’s harp, and it shines still, even beyond death.

With the thought of that song between his lips, Finrod crosses the gates and lets his feet take him across the golden streets of Valmar. Much is changed about the city of the Vanyar, but silver domes adorn the towers still, and bells ring out like a peal of merry laughter in the summer wind.

His body remembers paths walked long ago, recalls the brush of a familiar hand and the sway of golden braids the hue of elanor in bloom. Will he recognize her now, Finrod wonders? And who will she see in the darkness of his eyes, in the hollows of one reborn under the light of the Sun and the Moon?

He finds her, as he expected, deep in thought in her study. Her golden head a small glimmer among the piles of books, scrolls, and maps. Her body is fully bent over a framed parchment, its inks staining the tips of her fingers. 

‘Amarië,’ he speaks her name and falls silent. Perhaps no more should be said.

A pure river blue meets his gaze. Her face is perfectly still, almost too beautiful, like her bust captured in marble and pearl that had stood in Finrod’s gallery in Nargothrond for nigh over four hundred years.

But he catches the tremor in her hand, the tendons rippling rapidly under the skin until the quill in her palm snaps in half. The river blue spills forth down her cheeks, carrying with it the streams of longing, regret, anger. Love.

Finrod’s body moves of its own accord when he steps among the pieces of written history scattered upon the floor to reach her. There’s nothing unfamiliar about this embrace. Nothing is unknown about the way her head fits perfectly beneath his chin.

When the tremors in their bodies finally subside, Finrod catches sight of the parchment on Amarië’s desk: Of the Coming of Men into the West.

The delicate tengwar accompanies a miniature picture of a golden-haired elf, a simple harp upon his lap, and a kneeling Man before him. The Man appears much taller than Finrod remembers, and his beard almost touches the ground beneath his knees. He cannot help but chuckle at the depiction.

A slight blush colors Amarië’s cheeks as she traces his gaze. ‘We receive such few tidings from Endórë.’

‘I believe he would be quite pleased with how you’ve drawn him,’ Finrod tells her as he passes a light finger over Bëor’s figure.

Amarië answers his smile then, and Finrod hears himself let out a breath he has been holding for a whole age.

‘Will you help then? What happened after you sang to him of Eldamar?’ He knows the curiosity that sings through her voice.

Finrod accepts the quill Amarië offers and takes his seat beside his friend. They turn to their work, and for the first time since his rebirth, he feels he is home.

[alqualonde-s]

Finrod and Balan (Beör-to-be) on their weekly spring picnic.

Finrod’s hobby is creepily watching Men (one Man in particular) sleep.

[searchingforserendipity25]

First sentence game!

The hair flowed through his fingers like sunlight upon water, shimmering and elusive within his grasp.

Small Barahir let out the sweetest sigh against Finrod's neck.

Bregor's youngest was only a little heavier than he had been when Felegund first arrived, but less feverish; and his breathing was good, now, strong inside his little lungs, his fist tight around his tresses.

It had been a fretful first winter, with little rest since the first frightened messenger came half-sick himself to Nargothrond, begging the king's healing. But now the days were growing longer, warm sunlight lifted thick clouds of mist from the riverside and the lake, and Bregor was free to go hunting and ice-fishing, now, with someone to tend the children; his wife strong herself, her work much needed tending the sheep and goats in the hillside.

By the hearthside, Finrod sang the last of the winter away, quietly, against Barahir's dear wisps of hair; his heart wrenched in his chest, a little shattered with love, whenever another handful of hair was tugged from its braids.

[welcomingdisaster]

i heard from the edain in ossiriand that lord balan is having a mid-life crisis and dating some blond floozy who looks young enough to be his kid. in unrelated news elves in nargothrond tell me that finrod felagund is cradle robbing some human guy like 1/10th his age :/

[velvet4510]

Finrod/Bëor doesn’t seem to be a popular ship and I wonder why! It’s right there.

Finwë proves Elves can indeed love more than once, so this doesn’t mean Finrod doesn’t love Amarië too. But just look at the facts!

Finrod appears out of nowhere like an angel to bless and teach and spend time with Bëor and his people.

Bëor leaves behind all his people to spend the rest of his days with Finrod.

Finrod discourages Aegnor and Andreth from being together - why would he do this?? Because it’s not just out of knowledge of different fates. It’s out of personal experience. All he feels is agony that his beloved Bëor is gone and out of his reach until Arda breaks and he doesn’t want his brother to go through the same thing.

He swears his oath to Barahir and gives him his ring not just because Barahir saved his life but also because Barahir is descended directly from Bëor and is thus a part of Bëor.

He helps Beren not just because of the oath, but to redeem himself for his mistake in discouraging Aegnor from enjoying the time he could’ve had with Andreth, however short. With no idea what Lúthien will ultimately do, he sees her and Beren’s love as another doomed and fleeting love, but he has experienced this himself, and finally realizes it is ultimately worth any price. So he lays down his life to ensure Beren will have the chance that he had but also took from his brother.

And to ensure that his beloved Bëor’s bloodline will live on.

One of the most tragic love stories in the history of Arda is right there under our noses.

[nynevefromthelake]

Ok it’s mermay, so what about Finrod and Beor mermaid au? Finrod is a sea prince and very curious about people and Balan is widowed fisherman who lives near the shore with his sons

[actual-bill-potts]

Thanks @eilinelsghost for enabling me

Balan held on. By his fingernails, somehow, and his teeth if necessary. It was odd, because he was fairly sure most of his teeth had been gone by the time he died, but here they were back, and if they’d help him hold on then by all the gods he’d use them.

You must go, a hooded and cloaked figure had said when he first arrived. You do not belong here. Námo, he had realized with cold shock, the Doomsman of the Valar. He who had cursed Finrod.

Bright rage had flowed through his body then (so frail just a moment ago, and the juxtaposition between memory and feeling near made him fall over before mastering himself). "I will not leave until I see Nóm again."

Who? The tolling voice of Námo sounded almost puzzled, for a moment. Then the air seemed to clear. Oh. Him.

"Yes," Balan spat, "he whom you doomed."

He did that himself, Námo said, voice falling wearily like the pounding of great stones upon the earth.

Balan decided not to argue the point. "I won’t leave," he said. "I promised."

The feeling of a sigh seemed to manifest in the air around him. And what of your first wife, who has gone beyond the veil of Arda?

A pang. Esrid. To see her again, after all this time -

But Finrod had wept. Finrod had begged him not to leave, to stay for but another hour, another minute -

And Balan had left him.

"Esrid is gone indeed, beyond the world," he said, "but Nóm lives still. I will not leave him."

You must, said Námo - but was there hesitation in his voice?

There was.

Balan smiled to himself. "I will not leave," he said. "You do not command my fate. You cannot force me."

Námo inclined his great head. It will hurt, he warned. My halls are not made for mortals.

"I don’t care," Balan said.

The feeling of weariness, of great age, in the air intensified. Very well, Námo said, but neither can I help you.

"I don’t care," Balan had said again; but his heart misgave him. Finrod might live for a thousand years more. A thousand years, alone in the dark. He could not do it. He was not made for it.

Well, might as well try anyway, he told himself, and anyway I made a promise.

It was cold and dark for a long time then, and he was alone. He wandered in dreams, and tried to cling to happy memories: Baran and Belen, laid in his arms. Baran climbing a tree, eyes alight with happiness; Belen sat by the fire, eyes shining and far away.

Balan could see, as if from very far away, the shining motion of spirits through and out of Mandos. He wondered absently if anyone he knew was in that great procession; then decided it was not worth the risk to ask, lest he be swept up with them.

One day (night? He was sitting in an endless dusk) his eldest son approached, spirit blazing as brightly as it ever had within his body. From far away he appeared old and worn, older than Balan had ever seen: but as he approached the years seemed to fall away, until he was again the study youth of twenty-two summers he had been when Balan departed for Nargothrond.

"Father!" he exclaimed, rushing to fling his arms around Balan; and Balan found to his surprise that he was solid enough to be embraced. "Father, it is so good to see you!"

"And it is good to see you," Balan returned, laughing and weeping at once, "my eldest, pride of my heart!"

"What are you doing here?" Baran asked when the embrace ended. "We are all going that way," and he pointed to the endless procession.

"I am waiting," Balan said.

"Oh," Baran said. His face fell. "Father, will you not come with me? I have missed you."

Balan felt as if he were being torn in two; but he had made a promise. He pulled his son close to him again.

"I must wait," he said gently. "I promised. Carry my greetings to your mother, will you? I love you, Baran."

"I will wait with you," Baran offered - but reluctantly.

Balan shook his head. "You have made no vows. My son - O my son! I am so proud of you!" He found himself weeping again. He had not remembered he could weep.

Baran’s tears were wetting his shoulder; but at last his son pulled away. "I must go," Baran said reluctantly.

"I know you must," Balan said. "Be happy, my son. Go and find light."

Baran smiled. "I will!" he said, for he was strong, and merry of heart, and after all very wise.

"Wait -" Balan said, as Baran turned away. "What news of Nóm?"

Baran turned back, briefly. "He visits us often, and plays with the children. But he grieves."

With that he was gone, and Balan was left blinking in the endless dark.

There were more, after him. Belen, soon enough; then his grandchildren, Boron and Baranor and Beldir, grown into old men whose years fell off them as they stepped into Mandos, and who shed their bodies as they stepped out of it. They recognized him, always; and he loved them, always.

"I will stay with you," offered Belen, and Belemir, and Bereg. Their high quick courage swept Balan with pride every time. His children surpassed him at every turn.

Always he shook his head. The years blurred together.

"What news of Nóm?" he asked Belegor, and Bregor, and Gilwen.

Nóm was helping rebuild their great hall, which had been destroyed in a fire that past summer; Nóm was being taught woodworking, and was comically bad at it; Nóm was visiting less, for there was trouble in the North.

He grieves for thee, they said. He grieves for thee. He grieves for thee.

The blink of an eye passed - or was it years? - and a man with Baran’s nose stumbled into view. He was bleeding badly, looking around in shock.

He - wasn’t old.

No.

As the man - Balan guessed he was one of Bregor’s children - approached, his wounds seemed to close, and he stood up straighter. Still he seemed weary and sad.

"Father?" he whispered as he passed by.

"Not your father, nor yet his father," Balan said, who after all had lived with Elves for many a year and furthermore had nothing to do in the endless dusk save amuse himself with riddles.

The man’s eyes widened. "Bëor?"

"Tis I," Balan said, "and what is your name, son?"

"I am - Barahir," the man said, and Balan felt a lurch in his stomach. But Barahir was so young! The youngest of Bregor’s children!

"There was - fire," said Barahir, seeing his look, "fire and death; and our lands are gone. My son -" he broke off. He began to weep.

Balan drew him close. "I am sorry," he breathed, "so sorry. You will see him again."

"I hope he does not suffer too much," Barahir whispered. "O Emeldir! Say not that she too has died in pain!"

"I have not met Emeldir," said Balan, "so she is not dead."

"Little comfort that is, in these times," Barahir said grimly; but his face lightened. "She led our people to safety. She is stronger than I. She will survive."

He began to move away, towards the ever-moving column of light that Balan refused to join; then he stopped as Balan said urgently, "Wait! Is Nóm - has he -"

"Nóm lives," said Barahir. "I saved his life, in fact; and he swore to me a life-debt in return."

Balan stood stunned. A life-debt? Why? They were all of them sworn to protect Nóm, as he was to protect them. Why would he…?

Barahir laughed at his expression. "That’s what I said!" he exclaimed. "But he insisted. I didn’t want to refuse. He was very badly injured. It will all come to nothing, anyway," he added wryly. "The ring he gave me is doubtless in some Orc trophy-hoard by now. More’s the pity. It was beautiful."

There was only one ring Balan had ever seen Finrod wear. "He gave you the ring of his father?" he demanded.

Barahir nodded. "He has not forgotten you," he said quietly. "I did not expect to see you here; but I am glad of it, for there are dark times coming. But my part in the story is done!" he added. "I go to await my wife and son, and see my father. I wish you joy," he added as he left.

In the retreating light of Barahir’s spirit, Balan reeled. He could near picture the scene: Finrod, wounded and tired - his heart bled to think of it - giving Barahir his father’s ring. Of course Finrod would do something foolish like that, he thought fondly, the second one of us did him the slightest favor.

He longed to see Nóm; but he hoped Finrod would survive Morgoth’s onslaught. He did not deserve to die in pain.

Balan settled himself in to wait again. He had mastered waiting by now. He laid his spirit down, gently, and closed the eyes he did not have. Let the stars he could not see wheel behind above his head; felt the soft hand of memory close in his own. There was peace in it, after all this time. But he worried. Was Nóm all right?

Suddenly behind him there came an animal cry, guttural and hoarse. Balan sat up so fast his head - which was more metaphorical than physical - spun. He whipped around as the cry came again and saw a body.

That was…not good. Wasn’t Námo supposed to take care of these things? Not let people suffer?

Balan waited a moment; but the Doomsman did not appear. The Elf - if Elf he was - was now breathing raggedly. The sound tugged at his heartstrings. When Námo still made no appearance, he sighed and approached. Perhaps he could offer comfort, before Námo came from wherever he was hiding and swept this one off to be healed.

The Elf was naked, and so thin and wasted that Balan could count every one of his ribs. His hair fell to his knees, but was so tangled and matted its color could not be seen. He was covered in blood: so much blood, Balan had never seen so much blood on a person!

He knelt beside the Elf and reached out, carefully, to touch his shoulder. "My friend," he said gently, feeling an odd stirring of familiarity and foreboding as he said the words, "can I help?"

A sharp intake of breath: and Balan knew already what he would see as the Elf forced his ruined body to turn and face him. Clear grey eyes opened wide, and Balan looked into the face of Finrod Felagund for the first time in a hundred years.

"Nóm?" he whispered, torn between furious joy and deep heartsickness. "Nóm, what happened?"

"Balan?" Finrod rasped. His eyes were filled with pain and terror. One of them was swollen nearly shut, and the left side of his face tilted oddly: something was broken in his face. "Balan, how came you here?"

"How came I - I died!" Balan said, exasperated. "And you, foolish Elf, were supposed to live! What is wrong?" He did not know what to do. He had nothing with which to bind wounds, and little skill in healing. The sight of Finrod in such pain smote his heart.

But as he continued speaking, Finrod sat up slowly and reached out a hand. It progressed hesitatingly towards Balan, inch by shaking inch; and as it extended the twisted fingers straightened, the bloodied wrist became whole, until the hand that cupped Balan’s cheek was as warm and solid as it had once been in Nargothrond.

"Bëor?" Finrod whispered. "Beyond hope I have passed - is this joy truly mine?"

"I waited for you," Balan said. "I said I wouldn’t leave you. I promised."

A sob; and suddenly Finrod was in Balan’s arms, shining and whole and weeping as if his heart would break.