Time and time again
It had been over five hundred years since anyone had entered the forest surrounding His resting place. The world had long forgotten its history, and with it, the powerful figure who lay at the heart of these ancient woods. With time the trees had grown thick and wild, their branches weaving together in an impenetrable wall of leaves and shadows. The beings of Arda, once so attuned to magic and the mysteries of the earth, had abandoned the legends of the One, dismissing them as fables from a forgotten age. Time had buried him as thoroughly as the forest had. Those decedents of the Firsts slowly stopped believing and ultimately forgot.
But tonight, His Forest had been disturbed.
The escape of Fingon (Findekáno) and Maedhros (Nelyafinwë) through the wild lands of Beleriand had led them to the brink of despair. Behind them, Morgoth’s orcs were relentless in their pursuit, snarling and howling as they cut through the night. Fingon’s muscles screamed with every step, the weight of Maedhros; a limp body, blood dripping from his wrist where his hand had once been—made every movement agonizing. They had been running for hours, and the adrenaline was starting to wear off as Fingon continued.
Maedhros was barely conscious now, his breath ragged and shallow, his pain reduced to a low whimper. The blood loss had taken its toll, leaving him deathly pale, and Fingon knew that if he stopped running, even for a second, it would be the end of them both. The forest almost seemed to blend out of the flat plains they had been running across; tall, imposing, and unnaturally still. Fingon almost hesitated, but the sound of the orcs was growing louder, closer. He continued on.
“Just hold on, Maitimo. We’re almost there,” Fingon muttered, though he wasn’t sure if Maedhros could hear him anymore.
Fingon, chest heaving with the exertion of carrying his friend, risked a glance behind him. The orcs had stopped at the forest’s edge, pacing, confused. They sniffed the air, growling low in their throats, they looked around confused as though they couldn’t see the forest let alone enter.
It was as though the forest itself was protecting them.
Fingon’s relief was short-lived. His legs buckled beneath him as exhaustion set in, but still, he pushed forward. The air here felt different; heavy, thick. The trees seemed alive in a way he couldn’t explain, their leaves whispering secrets in a language he didn’t understand which was unusual for elves since they taught the trees to talk. Maedhros whimpered again. He had to stop, if only for a moment.
After what felt like an eternity of walking through the thick woods, he stumbled into a clearing, the trees parting in a perfect circle. Fingon’s breath caught in his throat. The moonlight bathed the space in a pale glow, revealing something... or someone... lying on the soft grass at its center.
A man.
Or at least similarly shaped. The figure was unlike anything Fingon had ever seen. His hair was long and black, cascading over the grass like a shadow, and his face was as pale as the moonlight itself. He was dressed in garments that looked as though they had grown from the earth itself, vines and leaves woven into the seams of his tunic. Fingon’s pulse quickened. Was this... some kind of forest spirit.
For a long moment, Fingon simply stared, too afraid to approach. The man was motionless, utterly still, as though he were part of the landscape. But there was no mistaking it—he was alive. Fingon could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint breath leaving his lips.
He carefully laid Maedhros down beside the stranger, his hands trembling as he brushed aside the black hair from the man’s face. His features were otherworldly, far more even than any elf Fingon had ever seen. His ears were long (too long) almost grotesque in their elegance, and his skin had the faint shimmer of something otherworldly.
Fingon hesitated, a whisper of fear curling in his gut. Who... or what... was this being?
Maedhros groaned, snapping Fingon out of his trance. The pain in his friend's voice brought Fingon back to the present. Without thinking, he whispered softly into Maedhros's ear. “It’s alright, Maitimo. Just hold on. We’re safe now.” He lays a soft kiss on Maedhros’s forehead.
As Fingon glanced at the sleeping figure again, a chill ran down his spine. He didn’t know how long he watched, but he became aware of a subtle movement, a twitch. The sleeping man stirred, his long fingers curling slightly, and then, without warning, he moved.
Before Fingon could react, the stranger’s arms wrapped around Maedhros, pulling the injured elf close to him. Fingon’s heart leaped into his throat, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, but Maedhros let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing in the stranger’s grasp. The pain that had wracked Maedhros’s face eased, and for the first time since the escape from Thangorodrim, he seemed… calm.
“What in the name of the Valar…?” Fingon whispered. He watched for hours, torn between the need to remain vigilant and the exhaustion that was dragging him into unconsciousness. Eventually, sleep overtook him.
The scream that shattered the night jolted Fingon awake. He scrambled to his feet, his hand already on his sword as he looked around wildly for the source of the noise. Maedhros was sitting up, staring down at his arm in wide-eyed shock.
His hand... his hand... was there!
“Am I mad?” Maedhros murmured, flexing his fingers, his voice barely a whisper. “I... I was sure we cut it off…” he stares at the hand transfixed as he turns it overlooking for differences.
Fingon, who by the way is equally stunned, crouched beside him, eyes darting between Maedhros’s restored hand and the still-sleeping figure beside him. Fingon reached out tentatively and poked the man’s shoulder, but the stranger didn’t stir. He was fast asleep, as peaceful as ever.
“If you’re mad, then so am I,” Fingon muttered, his voice hoarse. “I can see it too.”
Maedhros turned to him, his face pale but his eyes burning with disbelief. “Who is he?” he says nodding his head at the being.
Fingon could only shake his head. “I don’t know.”
“YOU LET ME SLEEP WITH A STRANGER!” Maedhros’s voice, hoarse and incredulous, echoed through the clearing. He coughs several times due to how sore his throat was form all the screaming and crying earlier.
“I… he healed you!” Fingon stammered. “He hasn’t moved since he grabbed you. I swear, he’s been asleep the whole time!”
Maedhros was about to retort when his gaze shifted, realizing something. “Wait. Where are the orcs?”
Fingon frowned, glancing around. The forest, once filled with the sounds of pursuit, was eerily silent. There were no orcs, no signs of danger at all. Fingon slowly rose to his feet, brushing dirt from his hands as he glanced around the forest clearing. Fingon sighed softly, feeling an odd reluctance to leave, as if this place had cast a quiet spell over him.
"We should go," Fingon finally said, his voice low. He crouched to pack away their supplies, though his eyes kept drifting toward Maedhros, who remained rooted in place, staring at the Sleeper. "Maedhros?" he prompted, glancing over his shoulder.
Maedhros, however, didn’t move. He stood frozen, his gaze lingering on the figure lying in the grass. His newly restored hand flexed absentmindedly, fingers testing the strength that had been returned to him. For a moment, Maedhros seemed lost in thought. He seemed to be contemplating something before finally deciding.
“No,” Maedhros said softly after a long pause, shaking his head. “We can’t just leave like this.”
Fingon frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
Maedhros reached into the pack he had been carrying, rummaging through it before pulling out a small, intricately designed elven dagger. The blade shimmered faintly in the dim light filtering through the trees. He ran his fingers over the hilt, tracing the ancient runes etched into the metal. “We should leave him something,” Maedhros said quietly, walking over to the Sleeper. “A gift for when he wakes up.”
Fingon blinked, still confused. “A gift? Maedhros, we don’t even know who—what—he is.” He gestured helplessly at the man sleeping on the forest floor, his voice filled with uncertainty.
Maedhros knelt beside the Sleeper, carefully placing the dagger within reach of his hand. “If we’re leaving,” he explained, “we’ll likely attract orcs when we exit the forest. He’ll need something to defend himself.”
Fingon fell silent, watching Maedhros for a moment. The practicality of the gesture suddenly made sense to him. Whatever this man was—however powerful—he had saved Maedhros’s life. Leaving him defenceless didn’t sit right, even if they had no idea when, or if, he would wake.
“All right,” Fingon said softly, a note of understanding in his voice. “But let’s go now, before the orcs find us.”
With one last glance at the Sleeper, Maedhros rose to his feet. The two of them exchanged a silent nod before turning away, walking back toward the edge of the forest. As they neared the trees, they moved carefully, their senses heightened for any sign of danger.
But as they approached the forest's border, something unusual caught Fingon's eye. There, just beyond the thick line of trees, was a faint, shimmering veil of magic. It was barely noticeable at first, like a thin ripple in the air, but as they drew closer, the blue-tinted magic became more defined—a strange, ethereal barrier stretching across the forest’s edge.
“What… is that?” Maedhros murmured, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the shimmering veil. It hung just above the ground, almost like a delicate curtain, swaying ever so slightly with the breeze. “Did you see ‘that’ when we came in?”
Fingon shook his head, his brow furrowing. “No… I didn’t notice it before. Could it be… something new?”
Maedhros stepped cautiously toward the barrier, extending a hand toward the strange magic. As his fingers grazed it, the surface rippled gently but did not break. The air hummed faintly, as if alive with an unseen power.
“Well, it’s keeping something out,” Maedhros said, a puzzled expression crossing his face. “But why would it stop us from leaving?”
Fingon stood next to him, staring at the barrier in quiet contemplation. “I don’t think it’s meant to stop us,” he said after a moment. “But I wonder... could this be why no orcs followed us into the forest? It must have been here the whole time, protecting the woods… or maybe protecting him.”
Maedhros’s eyes widened slightly, realization dawning on him. “You think the sleeper did this?” His voice was low, tinged with disbelief. “But how? He didn’t even wake up.”
“I don’t know,” Fingon admitted, casting one last glance toward the heart of the forest, where the mysterious man still slept. “But it feels… connected. Somehow, his presence must have caused this. Maybe that’s why he’s asleep.”
They both stood there, pondering the strange barrier and the even stranger man they had left behind. It didn’t make sense, but the longer they stared at the shimmering magic, the more certain they became that the Sleeper had something to do with it.
“Well,” Maedhros said with a soft exhale, “it let us out, at least.” He glanced over at Fingon. “We should move. Once we cross this, we’ll be in the open again. Orcs won’t be far behind.”
Fingon nodded, gripping Maedhros’s arm. “Ready?”
They both took a deep breath, steeling themselves as they prepared to step through the magical veil. The barrier shimmered once more, rippling like water as they passed through it. The moment they crossed to the other side; the atmosphere changed. The quiet, serene protection of the forest was gone, replaced by the harsh reality of the outside world. The distant growls and footsteps of orcs echoed in the distance, reminding them of the danger that still lurked nearby.
“Now… we run!” Fingon exclaimed, his voice barely more than a whisper as the two elves sprinted across the open terrain, the weight of pursuit heavy on their heels.
It wasn’t until several weeks later, when they had settled in the safety of a nearby village, that the full extent of what they had experienced sank in. The news of the Forest spread quickly, and whispers of its mysterious forest that was surrounded by a barrier reached even the most distant corners of the land. People spoke of a safe haven that no orc could enter. Some believed it to be the work of ancient magic, others thought it might be a gift from the Valar themselves. But Fingon and Maedhros knew better.
On a cold, quiet evening, as the two elves sat near the fire, Fingon spoke what had been on both their minds. “It was him, wasn’t it? The Sleeper.”
Maedhros nodded slowly, staring into the flames. “It has to be,” he murmured. “No one else could have created something like that, not without waking. But if that’s true…” He paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “Who! what... is he?”
Fingon shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever he is, he saved us. And he’s keeping that forest safe from the orcs.” He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Maybe one day we’ll find out more. But for now, I think we owe him our thanks.”
Maedhros nodded in agreement. And though neither of them could fully comprehend the power that had slumbered in that forest, they knew that something extraordinary had taken place.
From that point on, the forest became known as the Sleeper’s Forest. It was whispered that no orc could step inside, that the magic surrounding it protected all who entered. Many began to leave offering every time they entered as a small thanks to the being. Some left small gifts, tokens of thanks for the protector who slumbered within, others would brush his long hair or clean the clearing where he slept.