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markedasinfernal · 3 years

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Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to @soilrockslove for the @officialtolkiensecretsanta 2020. This year has been just a series of unfortunate events, so what better than a tale of Fingon and Maglor taking on the dark valley of Nan Dungortheb to get us through it. No major topic warnings except for creepy forest shenanigans, and I really hope you enjoy!

No star would pierce the cloak of night drawn thick upon the vale of Nan Dungortheb. Fog clotted heavy as cream amid those haunted gullies, and clung like spider's silk beneath the knotted branches of the woods. None would pass that dreadful valley save in the greatest of need; the Ered Gorgoroth to the north bled their malevolence into the soil, and in the marshes that hemmed the great forest of Doriath subtle enchantments were laid, spells of blinding, confusion, and terror.

For there in the vale between mountain and forest the potent magics of Sauron and Melian mingled, and the brood of ancient Ungoliant wove their snaring webs, and amid their confluence the earth itself was changed. The streams that flowed down from the mountains were thick with black sorcery, and within the blighted woods of that land the creatures that stalked there grew aberrant, and fey. What few paths that crossed the sinister vale were watched, and the travellers that dared them moved swiftly, for to linger there courted madness, and oft even those mighty in lore and strength of arms were led astray and vanished.

It was with due haste now that Maglor urged his horse forward, and behind him Fingon followed close.

Under a dreary dawn they had met, in a dell within the woods far to the west of the Nan Dungortheb where the valley's grasp was not yet strong, but still their meeting was cautious. In those treacherous lands, spied by jealous hearts, it was best not to draw attention. Indeed, Fingon had shed his courtly retinue some miles behind; the glittering robes of the High King of the Noldor were changed for simple, sturdy gear, and a worn grey cloak drew across the sharp knife at his belt, the quiver on his saddle, and the bow strung across his back.

Into the shade of the woods then he followed Maglor, most trusted emissary and skilful guide sent from distant Himring, and Fingon was glad of his company as the sun above them dimmed, and the grasping boughs of the trees grew close. At first they talked, in low voices discussing the comings and goings of their people, matters of courtly business and other importance, for long had been their years of separation, and to Fingon's delight their fondness was not forgotten. Meanwhile the forest chattered around them; brightly-coloured birds flitted above their heads in dashes of blue and yellow, singing out in voices sharp as steel. Dark-furred squirrels darted across tree-trunks whorled with green lichen, and upon occasion Fingon thought that he spied deer, strange pale stags like ghosts amid the shade, pale as snow with antlers crowned in blackened, budding flowers.

Further and further into the woods they delved; Maglor led them surely along trails scarcely wider than their horses' girth, and as the sun slipped away beyond the impassable peaks of the Ered Gorgoroth so their cheerfulness dimmed; the light faded slowly into dusk, and they grew quiet. Birds still called about them, but as they listened now their singing was no longer warm, nay, those cries were chilling; they chirped with voices of the slain, in grating, gurgling screeches that sent shivers crawling down Fingon's spine.

"How is Nelyo?" Fingon forced himself to ask; the words clung awkwardly in his throat, as if their very effort was an intrusion, a hostility. "Is he... well? It has been so long since last we met."

"He is well, yes," Maglor replied, his voice was hushed as warily he looked about, peering over his horse's neck as they wound through a dense thicket of wood, and the dreadful chorus of the birds ebbed away behind them. "The defence of our lands keeps him ever busy, else he would have come to greet you himself. He takes great pride in the bastions that we have built across the Gap, in the horses that we breed there, and our bright soldiers patrolling the plain."

"That is good," Fingon sighed, though a curl of unease brushed across his heart, and he looked out to the woods with clouded eyes. "Dark have been my dreams of late, and those whom I love are so far away in this perilous world. Tell me, please, is... is he happy?"

Suddenly a roar split through the sullen trees, a great bellow of anguish that chilled the blood in their veins. It was close, too close, quickly they looked about as the horses whickered and shied, skittering upon the narrow path. But their sharp eyes spied nothing; that dreadful noise hung in the air far longer than seemed natural, cloistered by the tight press of the woods about them. Finally the last echoes dissipated, and though the horses snorted and pranced at last they were calmed, and the forest grew quiet once more. As fast as they dared then they pressed onwards, but now they were watchful, and Fingon's right hand now rested upon the hilt of his knife more often than the reins.

"Is he happy? Maglor said abruptly, grimly; he urged his reluctant horse further down the track, and all too clearly Fingon could see the tension in his shoulders, the unmistakable press of a weapon held close under his cloak. "I do not know. At times I think so, but there is a coldness to him now that even the merriest of nights cannot thaw."

"Come," he breathed, and looking carefully about them glanced back to Fingon. "We should not speak of such things here. The hour is late; fell things walk by shade of night, and we have some distance yet to go."

Onwards they rode into the gathering gloom, the thick canopy overhead throttled the last straggling rays of daylight into a resentful twilight; the trees hunkered close above their heads, often forcing them to bend in the saddle, and their intrusion was met with glowering menace. The air swam thick with it, tense and clotted, and for how many miles they rode under those nightmarish boughs Fingon could not count.

The trail twisted amid the gullies of the hills, through sucking mud-marshes and reeking fens, and stoically he endured their dour passage. For about them now the woods grew silent, no eerie birdsong would pierce its dark gloaming, nor the chatter of small nocturnal creatures amid the underbrush; even the dull thud of their horses' hooves upon the trail was almost unbearable against that oppressive, consuming, unnerving quiet.

Now truly they went warily, and Fingon's hand never strayed far from his knife; now and then he thought that he heard the soft rustle of leaves behind them, a heartbeat too slow to have been caused by his horse's passage. A soft squelch into the mud behind them sent him twisting in the saddle; his heart leapt suddenly into his throat as wildly he turned, and his horse whickered nervously beneath him as hard he stared into the darkness behind. But there was nothing, nothing but night and shadowed tree-trunks, and reluctantly he settled himself again.

It must be a trick of the mind, he though, and fervently he hoped that he was right; some phantom of Melian's green sorcery sent to ward away unwary souls, or some formless shade of Sauron's malice that tempted reason into fantasy. Yet though he was no fretful child how he longed for the roaring fires of Himring, its solid stone walls under those rolling skies, a great fortress crowning the wide open hills; the suffocating malice of the forest crept into his bones, and violently he started as something snapped behind them.

Desperately he whirled about, his heart thudded in his chest as he stared out into the forest, his eyes straining against the gloom. For a moment, again, frustratingly again, there was nothing, only shadow and tree, but oh what nameless, instinctive horror turned cold in his gut as he peered beneath a thick tangle of brush, and a pair of cruel, shining eyes met his.

"Káno," he hissed; he dared not look away, he scarcely dared to breathe as those hungry eyes followed their passage. "Something's out there."

"I know." The certainty in Maglor's voice stabbed like ice through his stomach.

For a moment his gaze flickered, and when he looked back those eyes were gone.

For what seemed like a torturous eternity they travelled onwards in the dark, and beneath them the horses grew restless again, shying and champing at the bit, and it was only through great fortitude of will that the riders pushed them on.

Yet suddenly Maglor's horse halted and would go no further, it trembled and sweated upon the trail, and Fingon's mount came to a sharp stop behind, its ears pressed back against its skull and tail swishing. Before them the trail curved up a gentle slope, towards a hollow copse in the trees, and for a rare moment there the canopy thinned. Far above the sky could be glimpsed, the clouds rolling fretfully across a full and blurry moon. But against that dreary view something darker was silhouetted, a hunched shape stood upon the trail before them at the top of the hill, and in horror they watched as it rose.

Like a bear it seemed, but taller, misshapen; dark fur clung wet and stinking to its belly and thickly rounded shoulders, yet ape-like arms hung long before it, and hooked claws swung wide upon its paws as suddenly it reared up on its hind limbs. Those cruel eyes fixed upon them as its lips peeled back, its jaw hinged open wide, too wide, and saliva dripped from its yellowed fangs as it snapped its teeth. A growl thrummed through the air, and Fingon's heart beat painfully hard in his chest, for no manner of earthly creature was this, a foul mutant of warring sorcery. Its horrid jaws gnashed as it sniffed the air, and as its claws flexed and slashed Fingon reached for his bow.

Sensing his movement, suddenly the creature stamped, it bellowed out in such anger that the horses quailed, they spun and bucked and it was only for the love that they had for their masters that they did not bolt, they held their nerve and bravely they endured their terror. Again the creature stamped, with a hideous roar it took one lunging stride forward; fear and disgust blazed up in Fingons' heart and with elven speed he raised his bow, an arrow nocked and drawn.

"Wait!" Maglor hissed, and in surprise Fingon paused. "Don't shoot! In this place, it would not be wise."

At Maglor's command Fingon lowered his aim, his bow still drawn and ready, until slowly at his side Maglor straightened in the saddle, and cast back the hood of his cloak. And Fingon looked at him then in wonder, for suddenly the air grew charged; puissance hummed in soft, lapping susurration, and the clouds parted, and the moon shone bright and full, bathing them in evanescent light. For in that moment the power in Fëanor's mighty bloodline ran true; in his stirrups Maglor stood and raised a hand, limned in silver light he gleamed, and in a deep voice that was not entirely his own he said, "Great hunter, let us pass."

There was power in those words, command beyond the measure of clever speech, it pulled at him with such visceral strength that Fingon squirmed, and wide-eyed he marvelled. For he had heard that power once before, long ago in different lands, and to him now it seemed as if Fëanor himself stood beside him; the air about Maglor rippled with magic, silver and sharp, and with terrible command he spoke, "Let us pass! We mean no harm to you. We travel east, and will trouble you no more. Let us pass!"

Bright and fey as a lord of old Maglor stood against his foe, and before him the creature swayed; it snapped and growled, biting emptily at the air before shuffling upon its hind legs. For a few moments then it blinked, and grunted, before with a great huff of breath dropping down onto its forelimbs, and slowly moving off. For a long while they watched it depart, and as at last it slunk off into the shadows the moonlight dimmed, and failed, and with a sigh Maglor sat back into the saddle.

"Come, Finno," he breathed, and suddenly yawned, as if a great wave of weariness had come upon him. "My words may hold him at bay for a time, but I have not the magic of the Maiar, and I do not seek their challenge."

Quickly Fingon obliged, and swiftly stowed his bow, and without further word they moved off, cresting the haunted hill and crossing down into the gully below. With fresh admiration Fingon followed where Maglor led, and though the winding way was not easy, now the woods yielded to them, and hindered them no longer.

At last the forest began to thin, and the weary horses raised their heads in hope, with renewed vigour striding through the underbrush. With each step both rider and mount felt the oppression of the forest lessen, and their hearts were gladdened; unbidden the horses picked up into a brisk trot as the trees gradually fell away, and the rolling grasslands of the southern marches unfurled before them.

Fresh, cold air surged into Fingon's lungs as deeply he inhaled, and Maglor laughed beside of him in relief, and the horses flowed forward, into canter, into gallop; the wind flushed their faces red and wiped them clean of weariness. Away they sped across the grasslands, the pink rays of a clear dawn greeted them in gladness, the terror of the forest was sloughed away, and under a rising sun they thundered away to Himring and their journey's end.

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