Chapter 15: The Forest of Brethil

Fifteen
The Forest of Brethil

Beren stirred and awoke from dark dreams. He felt the pain and sores that he had received from torture and groaned. How he had endured such torment, he did not know. Finrod was dead, and that was all that he could think about. Then he opened his eyes and was near blinded by sunlight. He was startled at first and believed he had died, but then he lifted his face to the warmth and the light gladly.
“I never dreamed that I would see light again,” he said aloud. “Unless it were in my dreams. And speaking of dreams...”
He had thought he heard Lúthien singing, but he did not dare to believe his ears when he recognized her voice. What if it was some trick of wizardry as Eilinel had been? He lay where he was, waiting for Sauron to appear and demand information. Worse, what if it truly was her, and Sauron had succeeded to snatch her from the Caves? He could never trust the Enemy. Boldog may have never been slain and the story told to ensnare Finrod and his companions.
In spite of his doubts, he had sung back. He had made up a song off the top of his head so she would know he was alive and give her hope, but he was so weary that he had fallen asleep again. Beren had light now, so why not Tinúviel? He half expected to see her standing before him. He wished it were no dream.
His senses slowly came back to him, and he realized that he was warm, and it was not the warmth from the sun. It was the warmth of life. The pits were cold and black from the damp earth. No such warmth could get into them. He believed another wolf had come to devour King Finrod's body. He had failed to defend his king in life, he would not fail in death as well. He immediately drew his knife and stood up to defend the body.
Light fell upon another body lying at his feet, and it was no Elf warrior. It was Lúthien, her hair streaming in the wind, her face glistening like a jewel in the rain, and she looked to be asleep. Beren recognized her and cried out with joy and astonishment. His mourning was stilled, and he felt his heart aflame for her that she had come through peril to him.
“Tinúviel!” he cried, and then he laughed. “When am I going to stop mistaking you for the Enemy? I might end up killing you one of these days because of it.”
He leaned down and lifted her up into his arms.
“Awake, Tinúviel!” he called. “Come on, now. Wake up!”
Lúthien stirred and moaned, “Am I dead? Are we both dead?“
“No you are not dead.“
Suddenly she struggled against him and cried, “No! Please! Allow me to stay with his body!”
“Tinúviel!” Beren shook her a little. “What body? I am not dead at all! I am alive!”
Lúthien slowly opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and looked up at him as though she were seeing a ghost. She touched his lips and hair and was finally convinced. So Beren and Lúthien were reunited after their long parting, and the rain had ceased to fall, and the sun pierced through the clouds and shone down upon them, illuminating the ground before them so that they seemed to be standing in divine light. The two stared into each other's eyes for a long while, their eyes dancing with relief and happiness. They were searching for words to say, to release their joy and not lose their heads and their dignity in the process.
Beren had grown a shaggy beard since he was first thrown into the pit, hair in tangles, and he was spattered with blood and gore. Lúthien’s own hair was disheveled and she was dirty from many days of travel. Despite all that, each appeared beautiful or handsome in the lover’s eyes.
Then Lúthien could contain herself no longer. “I should have known that you would not leave me,” she said with a smile.
“Never,” Beren answered.
He swooped her into his arms and they kissed fiercely. Then Lúthien laughed merrily. She had not laughed for so long, it even surprised her.
“You are hurt.”
“No, I am not hurt.”
“But the blood…” she pointed. “I thought you were dead!”
“The blood is not mine. It is… Finrod’s.”
He turned to the king’s body, hoping against hope that he was alive. If Lúthien were here, why should he be dead? But Finrod lie still in a pool of blood.
All at once the dam broke, and Beren burst into tears. Lúthien offered her arms for comfort. There were no words she could say.
As he keened his grief, she studied the body of Finrod carefully. This was the one her father had hoped to wed her to once. She was frightened at the thought, for she had been very young when Thingol put the idea in her head. To wed him, she would have been required to leave Doriath and join him in Nargothrond among the Noldor. Finrod himself was hesitant to wed, though his people cried out for an heir. Few desired the Sons of Fëanor to take the throne then. Instead he had promised that if Lúthien decided she would wed him, he would welcome her. From time to time he would inquire about her and send her gifts, but they never arranged to meet informally or exchanged words. Only Thingol nursed the hope that his friend and ally would eventually woo his beloved daughter. It would be a good match, he had always insisted. It would benefit both their kingdoms and their race overall. However that might be, Finrod was almost never in her thoughts.
Looking upon Finrod now, she admitted that he was comely indeed. If she had seen that face in her youth she might well have agreed to the match. She saw him in person only once as a child and could never remember specific features. She had always pictured Finrod as stern-faced and cool of temperament. She would now be forever grateful to him and would admire his deeds. He was a friend to all free folk, including Men and Dwarves. He even tolerated the Sons of Fëanor, his estranged kin. He was an avid believer in justice and truth. He had kept his word and aided Beren when no one else would. He had sacrificed himself rather than betray anyone. Beren was alive because of him, and the ring she wore was once the king’s. She knew his death would be another grievous blow to Beleriand and tears of grief fell upon her cheeks.
This is what death looks like, she thought. Finrod was only a few hours dead, yet the color in his face was gone. He was stiff and cold to the touch, and the blood was beginning to smell like rotting fish. It was her first real encounter of death. Her father made certain that she should never experience it. During the war, he would not allow the public display of those slain in battle. Their bodies were quickly burned after their families had said their goodbyes. Lúthien was not allowed to go on hunts either to spare her from seeing the death throes of the beasts slaughtered for table, even though she begged to go. Now that death was staring her in the face, she did not know what to make of it.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
“Dead. I am the last of the company.”
“I should have come sooner.”
Beren’s tone suddenly changed, and he rose and looked down on her as he spoke, “What are you doing here? I thought you were to stay in Doriath where you would be safe!” Beren said sternly.
“I came to rescue you!” Lúthien answered sharply. “I have been through hell to reach you. In Doriath, I was safe but miserable. I could not stay there.”
“Tell me. Tell me all of it. Now that your adventures are over, we have all the time in the world to tell stories. What might of love did you possess to bring you here to terror’s lair!”
“Oh, that is a long story,” she moaned. “And I am not sure I have the patience to tell you such a tale. It would quite spoil the moment. I only wished to see you again, and you are not well. We must get out of this pit and freshen up. Can you walk?”
He nodded, then said, “I will not leave Finrod’s body here to rot.”
“We will take him with us, but bury him later,” Lúthien said after a pause. “I must see to your wounds. The living first, Beren. Then the dead.”
*******
Once Beren and Lúthien climbed out of the pit, the thralls gathered about them, some still convinced Lúthien was a Valier no matter what she said. They were curious about the mortal she had come to save. Mostly they wanted news of Beleriand. Their ears had been filled with lies of the activities of their kin. The couple told them all they knew. Lúthien wished she could see to their hurts. She wanted to answer all their questions and soothe all their fears. It was what the true Varda would do, whom they called Elbereth. But there were so many, and Beren was weak and in want of nursing of his own. Finrod’s body would ripen in time. Beren was becoming annoyed and impatient.
“See if they cannot carry Finrod’s body!” he said sourly. “Some of them may even know him. It is the least they could do.”
They were more than willing to do that. They knew where the nearest stream was. There were boulders and rocks aplenty. They could bury the king there. Lúthien could see to them all afterwards.
The thralls were true to their word. They soon came upon the stream. Lúthien requested they wait nearby. The boy that had led her to Beren earlier nodded and stood before the freed prisoners.
“Give them some time!” he commanded the throng. “In the meantime, see to the King’s body and find food and see to your health yourselves! These two have done enough for us, let them take care of themselves now!”
Amazingly, the mob listened. The boy turned to her.
“You may see to the man now, beautiful lady,” he said. “We will await your return. We have waited much of our lives, some longer than others. We can wait a little longer.”
“What is your name?”
“I have none,” he answered and walked away.
“At last, a stream clean enough to bathe in!” Beren declared. “And I must quench my thirst! I cannot remember when last I had a drop of water.”
“Drink as much as you like,” Lúthien said. “It may be a long while before we find another such stream.”
Huan was looking forward to a bath as well. He looked a fright with his coat matted in mud and blood. Beren drank and removed his shirt and boots as Lúthien started a fire and began boiling water. She would not allow Beren to bathe before she had seen to his hurts. His clothes had been taken when he was captured, all but the rags he wore about his waist. She had him lay down as she examined him.
He was covered with dry blood, and underneath that he was badly bruised and cut in many places. His feet were cut all over and covered with calluses. It looked as though they had tried to burn the soles of his feet as well. His back had been ravaged by the whip, his face bruised.
“What did they do to you?” she said as a tear fell.
“Tried to extract information and failed. They did not try long before they flung us all into the pit, deciding that would be better. Sauron’s torturers are no Balrogs. They more often kill their victims before they can get a whispered word.”
“I am surprised you could walk on those feet.”
“I can feel very little in them. That is a mercy, I suppose.”
She decided to wait to dress his wounds until after he had washed. Lúthien crushed herbs into the boiling pot, making an anti-bacterial soap which they used to wash their hair and skin. She filled their water skins and stripped down to her gown. All at once, the three companions dove into the waters. The blood, sweat, and grime washed clean. The waters were chilly but refreshing, not unpleasant. She rubbed his skin with the soap root. His cuts seemed beyond count. Then she rinsed her own skin with soap and water. They climbed out of the waters as soon as that was done.
Beren shaved off his beard and brushed out his tangles and trimmed his hair. Lúthien combed her own locks and sat by the fire to dry as she boiled more water for cooking and searched through her supplies for bandages.
As she rubbed a soothing salve and dressed Beren’s wounds, Huan shook himself, getting the couple even wetter. They laughed whole-heartedly. It had been a long while since they had laughed together.
“Wait! That is Celegorm’s hound!” Beren said with astonishment. “I did not recognize him at first with his fur coated in gore. How did you happen upon him?”
“I will tell you everything once all your needs have been met. You shall remain here with the fire. Huan and I will provide a meal.”
“But-”
“You were near death’s door a few moments ago,” Lúthien said firmly. “I will not take any chances to lose you now. Besides, Huan is an adept hunter and guardian. Trust me.”
He could brook no argument. The hound and the maiden hurried away. They returned shortly thereafter, Huan dragging several grouse in his jaws, Lúthien carrying herbs, fruits, nuts, and mushrooms. Lúthien plucked them and tossed the meat, herbs, and mushrooms into the pot. She offered the first bite to Beren, and he ate like a starving man, and that he was. He had not eaten for many days.
Once he had had his fill, he lay upon the grass, suddenly feeling every ache and pain in his bones, despite the cool water and the salve. Perhaps as his body regained its strength, it remembered every wound and complained. Lúthien joined hands with him, and Huan sat nearby.
“I never thought to see the sun again,” he said. “And I live now because of you. Now tell me what has befallen you, Tinúviel.”
Then Lúthien began reluctantly to tell Beren all that she had done from the moment he had left Menegroth in every detail. She told him about the growing wedge between her and her father, of her misery when all word of Beren ceased. She spoke of her vision, about her mother and her counsel. She told Beren about the betrayal of Daeron and his confessions, her imprisonment, and of how she had escaped from Doriath. She told him about how Huan had found her and brought her to Celegorm. She told of his trickery and her abduction. She was about to resign herself to wedding the serpent with the honeyed tongue until Huan disobeyed his master and led her to freedom. Beren listened intently, but when she had told the part about Celegorm and Curufin, he interrupted.
“Celegorm was never a friend to my people, and he is obsessed with jewels. His father’s, the throne, and now you. The brothers swore to kill me if they had the chance. They claim I am going to keep the Silmaril for myself! Your chance meeting must have been the most unfortunate thing that has befallen us so far! It was ill that you came upon them in your hour of desperation. I never knew the Sons of Fëanor had grown so powerful and swayed so many of the people of Nargothrond and that Orodreth could be so easily manipulated. Perhaps Finrod chose the wrong person as his steward. I suppose there was no one else. I fear for Nargothrond. I do not wish to see it fall into the hands of Morgoth or the Sons of Fëanor.”
“Orodreth is not Finrod,” Lúthien agreed. “The last of the great Noldoli kings is gone from this world, and he leaves no heir.”
“Did Celegorm hurt you or touch you?” Beren had to know.
Lúthien hesitated, remembering Celegorm’s lips upon her own and his hands in her hair.
“Curufin was the one I most despised,” she evaded, and it was true.
Curufin was ever Celegorm’s lapdog. He was all too eager to do his bidding, going out of his way to stalk her and be sure she was not breaking their ridiculous rules. He never seemed to care if he hurt her, and Lúthien had an uncomfortable feeling that the younger, crueler brother harbored thoughts of his own toward her. At least Celegorm sincerely wished for her safety and would make a bride of her, not a slave.
Beren looked murderous.
“If I ever have the chance to get my hands on them...”
“You may have that chance yet, Beren,” Lúthien said gravely. “Celegorm and Curufin may be after me even as we speak.”
She told all the rest. She spoke of the journey to the Isle, forcing their way through wolves and undead, slaying the sorceress of Thuringwethil and overthrowing Sauron after.
“So you came all this way, Tinúviel, over so many leagues and so many dangers, just to find me?”
“Of course. If you were willing to fly into the perils of Angband, the least I could do was to see that you got to the Gate first. It almost seems like my mother encouraged me all along to go after you. She is a Maia, after all. Perhaps she realizes what I felt. She is not one of the Eldar, but a child of the Valar. I hope she knows that I am alive and well, and that I have done her proud. She and Sauron were contemporaries in Valinor, and he shall never disturb Middle-Earth again.”
“Yes, and you have won much glory for yourself. You risk too much for me.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“No one upon earth has dared what you have.”
“Except you. You have dared a deed that no Man or Elf has ever dared before, Beren.”
“The singing. I thought I was only dreaming when I heard your voice. That is why I sang back, but then I told myself I was a fool. You were supposed to be safe in Doriath.”
He wondered if she would ever be safe. He remembered Sauron’s words. Morgoth was seeking her, but he did not speak of his fears. Instead, he grew angry, and he wanted to see Finrod.
They returned to the thralls, and they had made a bier for Finrod and dressed his body. Lúthien shook her head
“He was a wonderful king to his people. I do not think any Elf of the Noldor could replace him. I knew him, never intimately. The news of his death will not affect his people only, but all Elves. What happened?”
“We left Nargothrond,” Beren began. “We took the guise of Orcs, even though many of the Elves were a bit too tall for the part. Finrod used his enchantments. But Sauron knew his own servants. Evil knows evil. Finrod was no match for Sauron, and his spell soon was laid on us all. We were stripped of our disguises, but Sauron could not find out who we really were. He threw us all into a pit. After we had been in those pits a few days, we heard one of our companions cry out. We asked him what was wrong, but all we found was blood stained upon the earth where he had last been standing. We had no light, so we could not see what had happened. Then Sauron brought us all out and again ordered us to tell him who we were. But Finrod would not tell him anything, and none of the company would betray him. Sauron threw us all back into the pit. Little by little, our company grew smaller, until at last, it was just Finrod and I left. He sacrificed himself for me. That is why I am going to bury him here. That is the least I can do for my king and foster-father.”
Huan whimpered and sat by the body of the king.
“So you are Huan of Valinor, are you?” Beren asked the hound.
Huan nodded solemnly.
“And you saved my Tinúviel?”
Again, Huan nodded.
“I cannot thank you enough. I see he has been wounded and healed by you.”
“Sauron's work,” Lúthien sighed.
Huan began licking his wounds, and Lúthien patted him on the head. Then she looked at the throng.
“There are so many children among them. That boy said he did not even have a name. Children born into slavery, laboring beside adults. Their eyes are not like children’s eyes. It is so senseless. I wonder what Angband will be like.”
“Worse, I imagine.”
Lúthien and Beren buried the body of King Finrod upon his isle. The thralls aided them. There, they paid their last respects to him. Beren took Lúthien's hand and took the ring of Finrod off of its chain. Then he stooped down to Finrod's grave and held it up.
“See here, Finrod, “ he said. “This ring is to become our wedding ring someday, if ever we have the chance and live to see such a day. Thank you for all of your past kindness to my father and I, and to all the kin of Men. As a father you were to me, and you were also my teacher and my friend in need. I wish that it had not come to this, Finrod. Now here is your sword. May you rest in peace and join your father, and may you be allowed to return to Middle-Earth soon. We all need you now.”
Then Beren, weeping, drove Finrod's sword into the earth, marking his grave. He wiped away his tears then and let Lúthien set to work. She sprinkled salt around the grave and blessed the grounds in the name of Ilúvatar.
“May no evil come here and disturb King Finrod's remains,” she said. “Those that do shall be punished by death. I make this a sacred place in the name of Eru that reins in the Undying Lands. May Finrod's bones be put to rest and may they never be disturbed. His death has been avenged. Farewell, dear king.”
Then Lúthien kissed the sword as a sign of respect. Beren took her by the hand and stared at the grave for a moment. Then he spoke again.
“Now upon your grave, Finrod, I will swear this. I swear that I shall obey your last wishes. I shall succeed in my Quest, and Tinúviel shall be my bride. On this I swear. I call upon myself the everlasting darkness in its breaking, and may I be as faithful to my oath as you were to your own!”
Lúthien walked amongst the thralls and soon ran low on her healing supplies. She received many more thanks. Some of the newly freed people left immediately in search of their homelands and their families. Those that had no home offered to stay with the couple. But Beren would hear none of it.
“I want no more deaths on account of me!” he bellowed. “You have been freed! Leave! Make homes for yourselves. Forget your torments and make babies! Tinúviel brought you life and freedom. That is what she can give, but all I can give is ashes and dust!”
“If you know naught where to go, go to Doriath or Nargothrond and spread the word as to what happened here.”
“Huan,” Beren commanded. “First search out the land and make sure that none of Morgoth's armies or spies or anything of the sort still lurks here. This land shall be clean again!”
Huan nodded and did as he was told. Then Beren slipped the ring of Finrod onto Lúthien's finger and kissed her hand. She smiled.
“Ever since you left, I had worn the ring about my neck in memory of you. Now I wear it upon my finger for love of you,” she said, “for you are alive.”
“I just hope that we may have the chance to make it our real wedding ring, someday,” Beren said sadly with a glance at Finrod's grave.
“I want to leave this place,” she said. “We cannot stay here.”
Once Huan had come back and assured Beren and Lúthien that there was nothing to fear from Sauron or Morgoth again in that land, Lúthien decided that it was time to say good-bye to Huan. Lúthien kneeled and patted Huan on the head, and her eyes were filled with tears. Huan had cast down his eyes.
“All I really can do is thank you, Huan,” Lúthien said at last. “Of all the Men and Elves of the world, you were the only one who would help me, and you are a dog! I will never really know why you decided to help me, but I guess it could have been because the Valar was smiling down on me at that moment. You put your master to shame. Thank you.”
I will never be able to claim Celegorm as my master again, Lúthien. I wish I could talk to you, but I dare not. Not yet.
“Thank you, Huan, for looking after my Tinúviel,” Beren said. “You are a noble beast indeed. Oh, and when you see Celegorm again, lift a leg and piss on his boot for me.”
Huan gave him a knowing glance.
“You cannot come with us. You belong to Celegorm, although I know your love for each other will be far less when you return home. He may be after you as well as he is after me. I promise you that we shall meet again. I do not want you to leave. It may seem like I do, but I really do not want to say good-bye to you at all. I would let you come with us, but you are wounded, and I know you yearn for your master. Even you have to agree that you are in no condition to fight, and I would not be able to live with the fact that you already have a master. He may miss you too. You may think it unlikely, but I would forgive you if you did such a thing to me. Because you are not just a great hunting dog or any other of the sort, for to me, you are a dear friend. In fact, you are almost human to me. Believe me, it is very hard for me to let you go, but I know it is the right thing to do.”
But who will help you two when you go to Angband? Huan would not budge.
“Huan! This is just plain stubbornness! Beren and I can take care of ourselves. Really! So please just go home and forget about us. You have your own troubles to face with Celegorm. Go home!”
All right. I know I will regret this, but I will leave if you are going to badger me like that, Lúthien! I still will worry for you and Beren. Good-bye for the present! Believe me, I will be traveling with you two again soon enough! You will always have my blessings and my help whenever you need it!
She hugged him and he nuzzled her neck. Then he gathered up the freed slaves of the Isle of Sauron and began leading them back to Nargothrond even though he still had a slight limp. The refugees must tell the unhappy story of Finrod’s death, he must face Celegorm, and others would guide those that had not come from the city. The thralls followed, some more reluctantly than others.
Lúthien sank to the ground, sad to see him go. Beren sat next to her and wrapped his arms around her. She closed her eyes.
“We have both lost a friend,” she told him. “You, Finrod, and I Huan. I will never find a truer friend.”
Beren stole a glance at Finrod's grave and bowed his head.
“May no such parting come between you and I, Beren,” she said.
She had been reunited with him, and that had been what she was aiming at all along. She slept easily for the first time since Beren had left Doriath. Even the thought of Morgoth and the real quest could not hinder her sleep. No nightmares disturbed her rest, and Beren was right by her side, just as she had longed for.
******
“I did not wish any of this upon you,“ Beren said.
“Yet here I am alive and well and so are you. All is well. We can forget the road we have traveled and think of the road ahead.“
“I will think of the road ahead, but I will not forget the road behind. You have seen Nargothrond,” Beren said. “I was schooled there as a boy you know.”
“Yes. I knew that very well. You told me, and I pride myself in my memory,” she answered.
“And did you think it beautiful?”
“I found it very beautiful, but it was as nothing to be compared to my home in Menegroth. It was an imitation of the Thousand Caves. No more than that. But I speak harshly, and I did not have much of a chance to wander about the city. I am sure I might have grown to love it, had I not been locked away in a small chamber my whole stay!” Lúthien said bitterly.
“And Celegorm saw to that?”
“Ah yes. I had not known you were acquainted at the time.”
“You refused him,” he said, in the most delicate way he could think of without being obtuse. “So he was somewhat bitter. Celegorm is not accustomed to works of art refusing him.”
“I told him I loved another. It was perhaps the wrong road to take. It was the truth when I said it, and true still. He told me...”
“Yes?”
“He told me that Man does not love as Elf-kind does. He says that they divorce often and are unfaithful to each other. Is that true?”
Beren sighed and answered, “The Elves call earth “Arda Sahta”, the Marred World. Within its borders, nothing can be uninfluenced by Morgoth, and Elves and Men, who are made of Arda's matter, are all likely to suffer in some way. Man has ever been under his influence for a long while, for when we first came upon this earth, we had no one to guide us. It is so, Tinúviel, but there are men that are noble. They have one wife for one lifetime, rear their own children, wed their children for the best, and keep to one bed. I have known men, such as Gorlim, that died to keep such honor.”
Lúthien nodded and said, “Celegorm spoke as though there was no good in Man at all. He absorbed himself in my complete safety. At least he treated me kindly, but his manner only made his betrayal all the more painful to me. I was shaken by Daeron’s betrayal, but I trusted him, Beren. After my loved ones turned themselves from me, I thought I had found a great friend. I see now that it was naive of me to think he would aid me, and his spurious promise that he would be my guard as long as I came to Nargothrond with him, I should have known! I might have seen through his words, and I should have noted that he guarded his mind too well.
“But I was so glad to have such a wonderful lie that I believed what I was told. It is very difficult to lie to an Elf. We can easily discern a lie by studying the person’s demeanor, body language, and eyes. No one can be dishonest unless they have made an art of it, and what kind of individual would make an art of telling fancy lies unless they used it for malicious use? I suppose I was too infatuated with him, under a sort of spell, the same spell that I had cast upon him. He was very beautiful, and his charm was like that of a snake’s. I thought I had been blessed when he gave me his word, and I was attracted to his power and the wisdom of the years he has lived. He is a liar with the face of a choir boy!”
Lúthien frowned and let out a relieved sigh. She had been wishing to say these things for a long time.
“Of course I knew that Celegorm was cloaking his mind from me. Whenever I pressed him about the roads we might take on our quest, he would avoid my face and tell me that such matters were in more competent hands. He thinks I am no more than a child, and compared to him, maybe that is so. I hate him so for what he did. They used unnecessary force upon me. Suddenly they took hold of me and stole my cloak, and how could I defend myself against two infinitely strong beings such as Celegorm and his brother?”
“That is because you know nothing about swords,” Beren explained. “Have you even held a sword?”
She scoffed, “Me? Having been raised by Thingol, you should understand that such a thing is unthinkable.”
“What about the sickle dagger you carry with you?”
Lúthien drew her dagger out absentmindedly and answered cryptically, “You mistaken its purpose by its appearance, Beren. It is not my main defense. I maim but can rarely kill with it.”
Beren paused and looked more closely at the knife. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about it, but there was nothing truly extraordinary about her cloak either, unless it happened to brush your eyes...
He waved if off and said, “But you must learn the art of defense. How else do you think you can defend yourself if such another attack were to happen? You must learn the basics if you are to last ten minutes in such a place as we are going.”
He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. She stared with her lips parted in wonder, and Beren was enchanted, as he always was with her, by such a simple expression.
“Come,” he said. “You taught me to dance once long ago, and now I shall be the teacher.”
“Dancing does not involve the chance of slaying someone.”
“This is something that you must learn, Tinúviel.”
She turned her face away, but Beren seized her hand and forced her to her feet.
“Beren, please!” she begged. “I cannot learn such a thing! I am not a shield-maiden!”
“But I shall make a she-warrior out of you yet! You turned me into an honest man, and in return I shall corrupt you!”
He laughed, but Lúthien looked confused and lost when he handed her his sword. She almost dropped it in horror, and it was a heavy thing. Her shoulders rolled forward and she was bent like a little old woman with the weight. Beren laughed again.
“I know that you are no weakling, Tinúviel!” he said. “Hold it up!”
“Stop laughing!” she said angrily.
She raised it a little.
“Good. Very good. You can lift a sword. Now try it with one hand.”
“You cannot be serious!”
“Yes.”
She dropped it several times, but after a few attempts, she held it with one hand.
“There. Now what should I do?”
“See if you can swing it,” Beren instructed, backing away to give her room. “Be careful.”
Lúthien tried to swing it and fell backwards. Frustrated, she cast the sword from her, and Beren fell backward laughing.
“Go ahead and laugh!”
“Try it again,” he said with sudden sternness. “You shall do it again and again until you get it right!”
Lúthien sighed and snatched up the sword, determined to prove that she could successfully swing and thrust. If she could do that, no other instructing was necessary. That at least is what she told herself. Beren took the sword and showed her the correct way to hold it and motioned how to swing and thrust. How he loved teaching her! When he was satisfied with her progress, he raised up his spare sword, much shorter than the other but it would do.
“You are doing quite well, little bird,” he said. “Better than I expected from a She-Elf.”
She blushed and answered, “It is not something that I wish to be good at.”
“Are you really going to stand there and tell me that the crowned princess of the Sindar, a people with some of the grandest armories of Beleriand, knows nothing of war-craft?”
“We do have grand armories. Some of those weapons came from Valinor, and I wandered the armories when I was a child to look at them. When Daeron had come to the age of training with blades, I would watch as the sword-master tutored him. The sword-master ignored my presence altogether until I had watched the fourth lesson. Then he took a special interest in me and ordered Daeron to leave. Then he let me grasp a little wooden sword. He said that I likely had natural skill since my father is one of the champions of Doriath and hinted that there could be more to it than that. I was also my mother’s daughter. He offered me private lessons and promised my father would never learn of it, but I refused. I knew my father would not like it.”
“Well, if you want us to survive the Quest and marry at last, you must learn how to fight,” Beren reminded her. “I hope the master-at-arms was right. It would make my job a little easier. Raise your sword. Time to see how well you can use that against another being.”
“Never could I be as good as you!” Lúthien cried in horror.
Beren smiled and said, “I was humiliated so many times when you taught me to dance. Constantly stumbling in front of you! It was degrading! Now I get my revenge! Now I have the chance to humiliate you! Start it slow. Remember the steps I taught you. It is just like a dance.”
“It is not at all like a dance!”
“Think of it in that way and it may help.”
Lúthien took a deep breath and they began. Beren counted as she thrust and he blocked, then he thrust and she blocked. They repeated this several times, each time making more speed and exerting more force and Beren gave her his appraisal.
“Very good,” Beren said, withdrawing his sword suddenly. “Shall I give you a taste of real combat?”
“No! I am not ready for anything of the sort!”
“Too late!”
He swiped at her. She ducked and screamed.
“Beren, stop!”
“Block, do not duck! You must always try and be the offense! Defenders get tired very quickly unless they have endurance.”
“You might have taken my head off!”
“Never, but a foe might be desiring to do just that.”
Lúthien managed to block his next blow.
“I think I hate you!”
“Come on! Hit me!” Beren teased. “You learned well how to block but now you must thrust!”
“I do not want to harm you!”
“I can take anything. Come on!”
She dropped the sword on his foot purposely, something he had not expected at all, and he let out a cry and hopped up and down, holding one foot. It was Lúthien’s turn to laugh. Then she picked up the sword from the ground.
“Ah no!” Beren dove at her with his sword, wrapped one arm around her shoulder and neck, and they were thrown backwards together.
“Careful!” Lúthien cried. “The sword! The sword! We might have been impaled upon it!”
Beren cast it away and turned to her with a wide grin. “Are you ready to face your doom?” he said.
They laughed, and Beren began covering her with kisses and stroking her face gently.
“Tomorrow, I shall teach you more. And the next day and the next until you are a proper warrior,” he said.
“I wish you would teach me your native language, Beren,” she whispered. “The tongue of Man that I know so little about.”
He was surprised by the request. “Why do you bother, since your own tongue is richer and more beautiful?”
“I infinitely prefer the art of language than the art of war.”
He considered and said at last, “I shall teach you.”
Lúthien smiled and was luminous with excitement suddenly. She clasped his arms and began to dance about.
“Let me show you something! It is something very special! I would reveal it to no one but you!”
She grinned mischievously. Then she brought out a few wrappings from her things. She took away the leaf wrappings and revealed a few cakes. She broke away a small piece and put away the rest.
“I must save these. They are much too precious to waste,” she muttered to herself, very grave.
“Cakes?” Beren said with a frown. “Cakes made in Doriath. Where did they come by them?”
“They are not just any cakes,” she answered, deeply injured. “It is lembas. I would have you taste some.”
“It is only way bread. The Elves of Nargothrond made such. It is pleasant and filling enough, I suppose. I have tasted enough of it.”
“This is the way bread of the Sindar!” Lúthien told him. “My Mother made it herself, and it is superior to any of that of the Noldor’s making. No mortal man has tasted such a morsel, and I am beginning to think that I should keep it so. You have insulted my Mother with your prideful tongue.”
“I meant no insult to your mother, whom I hold in high esteem, mind. It was she that saved me when King Thingol interrogated me upon his throne. I give you my most sincere apologies.”
She hesitated, and then said, “Very well. Come and taste this anyhow. It is an honor I give to you.”
Beren sat beside her and she placed the food into his mouth. His frown quickly converted to a smile and he ate every crumb.
“That stuff is delicious!” he exclaimed. “I give your mother my greatest praise! What is it made of?”
Lúthien laughed with delight and answered, “That I cannot tell you. No human can know.”
“Are they made with white magic?”
“I suppose you could say that, but I do not know what you mean by magic. Good magic is for the purpose of creating or preserving beauty,” Lúthien explained, “whereas bad magic is used for deceit or to dominate the wills of others. But magic in general is only a means to quicken the process between the conception of thought and realization of effect. Magic is inherent. For example, say the word ‘green’ and it invokes the image of the color in a listener's mind. The process of invoking magic is to visualize the thought and speak it aloud to realize its effect. By saying the word, it makes the thought real.”
“So that is all that magic really is? Then what is it when you perform miracles?”
“The Great Power, which is not magic at all, but the grace of the Valar.”
“Do you not possess some of this power, Tinúviel?”
“I do,” she said soberly. “And it is their grace, not steel, that we may need to succeed.”
“What shall we do now?” Beren asked the question that they had both been dreading.
“We must delay the Quest,” Lúthien answered. “If only so that we may heal mind and body and plan what we can.”
“Where shall we go? The only truly safe place in this world is Doriath.”
She ripped herself from his grasp and gave him a piercing look.
“I will never return to Doriath,” she insisted, the memory of her first betrayal and imprisonment was still a bitter one.
“Then let us go to Brethil,” Beren suggested. “A small remnant of my kin fled and created a little village there. They are the people of Haleth, distant cousins of mine. They would gladly take us in, I think.”
“You mean Men?“
“Yes. They are close to the Girdle. I discovered them some time after I first came upon Doriath, but I did not wish to expose them under any circumstance to your people. I know now and I knew then how your father feels about mortals.“
Lúthien smiled one of her luminous smiles and became as giddy as a child. She could not suppress her excitement.
“I get to see Men?“
“Not just men,“ Beren laughed. “But women and children as well.“
Lúthien nodded, a broad smile upon her lips. She could barely restrain a girlish squeal of delight. She was going to see Men! Beren was the only one of his kind that she had ever met. Now she had the opportunity to dwell amongst them for a time. She could see their women, children, and elderly. If only her father could have known that his precious daughter was to live among mortals! Then she remembered that Brethil was part of Thingol’s realm and near the Girdle of Melian. Perhaps too close. A whole community of humans was living so near to the Hidden Kingdom? She would never have guessed it.
Men multiply and increase, Celegorm had told her once when she was his prisoner, hateful words then, but now they rang true. Soon we shall be choked with them, like a yearling tree overtaken in its bed by a sudden growth spurt of weeds!
Her father had given leave for men to set up a temporary residence recently so long as they agreed not to disturb his folk, but he had no idea of the numbers. Certainly, if her father had known how large the settlement had grown and that they planned to remain there and increase permanently, he would have driven the poor folk away and razed their houses to the ground. He had long ago made an edict that Men were not allowed in his realm for any reason, though he gave none for their expulsion.
“These people of Haleth are Elf-friends, are they not?” she wondered how they might react to her.
“Of course!” Beren reassured her. “But few of them have actually seen your kind. Only veterans and noblemen had that prerogative. And none have laid eyes upon one such as you. Please forgive them if they stare.”
“Of course! I am quite accustomed to the feeling of eyes upon me,” she replied. “My very looks precede me, after all.”
Beren led the way until they came upon a little wooden watchtower upon a small hill. Below it and on the other side of it, they knew, must be the village. There were three men in the tower keeping watch, speaking in a strange tongue and laughing lustily. They drank ale as it began to pour and sang at the top of their lungs, as if in challenge of the storm. So bold they were, just like her beloved Beren. She wanted a closer look, and she was so eager to do so that she threw back her hood and stepped out of the safety of the trees and began climbing up the hill before Beren could stop her.
The men did not notice her at once, so she froze and remained where she stood, oblivious to her danger. With her keen elvish eyes, she noticed every small detail. The three were all so distinctly different. The first was an elderly old man, but he still stood vigil in the cold and wet without a complaint and drank more heavily than the others. In fact, he relished it. His age was carved upon his face, but he was not ugly at all. His skin was wrinkled and rough. His hair was white as winter snow, eyes a very pale blue and crinkled at their corners. However, they shone just as brightly as the others’. He was frail, but his wisdom more than compensated for his lack of strength. The scars of a proud veteran were upon his face. He was a man that danced with time and her ally death. He led the dance until it was fate’s turn to seal his demise.
The second man was a balding, middle-aged warrior. He was barrel-chested and muscular, though his remaining hair was auburn frosted with gray. He had the same eyes as the elder, and obviously respected him. Fresh scars, no more than several years old, were upon his neck where an enemy had almost slit his throat. That had been his narrow escape from death before his time. He had grown a large beard, though it was not long and tucked into his belt as the Naugrim wore theirs. It too, was auburn and flecked with gray.
Lastly, there was an untried youth. The boy was attempting to grow his very first beard. Only a few whiskers covered his chin. He had a rich head of auburn hair, and again, the same pale eyes. She guessed that these men must be a family. A grandfather, father, and son. There were no scars upon him that she could see, but she guessed that underneath his leggings, she might find the bruises and scrapes of a growing boy still. They all wore earthen colors, natural camouflage in the forest, but they believed there was nothing to fear.
At last, the boy looked in her direction and fumbled for his bow. Still undisciplined as well.
The others saw his movements and spoke in the language that she did not understand. Their eyes were stern, but flashed for a moment with amazement. The boy found his bow and gazed open-mouthed upon the beautiful phantom before them. Lúthien stood motionless in the rain, her hair loose and wet. She gazed up at them with startling gray eyes and smiled at them with a warm smile that radiated unconditional love. The spell of her beauty struck them hard.
Beren sprang before her and shouted to them in their own tongue, “Blessings to the folk of Haleth! I am Beren son of Barahir! I seek to dwell with you for a time, cousins!”
“And who is the woman?” they demanded.
She laughed and said, “I am no Woman, my friends, but I would like to meet one. Tell me, young sir, how old are you? Are you a child or a man?”
The boy stammered, “I am a man. I am fourteen!”
“An adolescent. And what is your name?”
He blushed crimson, “It is Bran son of Brac.”
“You speak excellent Sindarin, Bran.”
He beamed and stammered for a moment longer, then turned to his father for aid.
“If you are not a Woman, than you must be a She-Elf,” Brac said.
“Not quite,” she answered enigmatically.
“Milords,” Beren bowed, “allow me to present to you Lúthien Tinúviel Princess of Doriath and daughter of King Thingol Gray-Cloak and Queen Melian the Maia. She has never met any of our folk and is most anxious to learn of us.”
The men stood in their places, speechless at the announcement. Then, revealing the initiative of a leader, Brac beckoned to them.
“Follow me, milord. Lady,” he bowed to her. “Bran, you remain here with your grandfather. I shall return in a moment. We must properly accommodate our honored guests.”
“Yes, Father.”
Brac came down from his post and led them past the fields of barely and rye and into the village. There were several hundred houses made of wood or reeds and roofed with straw, each with an herb and vegetable garden nearby. Some of the homes were unremarkable and unfinished. They were for the future generation of Men. Lúthien knew that the Laquendi would have been horrified to see that so much living wood had been cut for their shelters. The smells of animals, foods cooking, and smoke, the sign of civilized people, welcomed them.
The people in the village ceased all activity to stare at the strange pair, a She-Elf and a Man. Children stopped in their tracks to gape at them. It seemed to the simple people that a beautiful phantom was among them. It was hard not to notice the many pairs of eyes upon her, half mistrusting, half enamored, but Lúthien walked soundlessly onward with her head held up high and careful not to make eye-contact. Beren wrapped a protective arm about her and put on the mask of a wary warrior, though he feared nothing from Brac or his men. It was purely an instinct.
Brac stopped before a small, isolated cottage and said, “This place is empty. You may take up your lodging here. We offer our hospitality in exchange for your cooperation with our rules and your willingness to lend a hand. We do not have much, but we shall give all that we can,” he glanced again at Lúthien, struggling for words, “and we shall try not to ask questions. You are strange folk. I ask how long do you plan to dwell with us?”
They exchanged glances, and Beren answered, “We shall stay no longer than a moon, we hope.”
“And there are none searching for you that might do us harm if they found you?” Brac pressed.
Lúthien said, “We would never wish harm upon all of you. We would die before doing that, Master. We are very grateful for your kindness. Beren and I are quite travel-worn. We want only a brief respite from our cares.”
Brac nodded and returned to his father and son. Lúthien then thought guiltily of the half-truth she had spoken. The Eldar could lie, but there was much less dishonesty because it was so hard to hide it for long. They could usually sense when someone was lying to them, and they had learned that truth or silence was often much more effective. After all, the truth could be easily twisted so that it was almost a lie, and so the Eldar had fostered the facade that they could not lie. It often proved a useful political tool.
She knew that more than one party was searching for them. Sauron may have returned to his Master by now, begging for a new form. Though he feared Morgoth, she knew that he could not possibly tolerate his wretched shape with no power of his own, nor could he escape his Master’s disfavor, for long. The servants of the Enemy now knew she was in the Wild somewhere, as well as her potential. Angband would likely be emptied of scouts and spies to find her.
Celegorm was likely seeking her too. He was one of the greatest hunters in the known world and could not possibly pass up the chance to hunt his own kind and test his skill. Their very quest threatened his oath and position of power. He would not let the key to the Elvin-kings’ thrones slip form his grasp so easily or allow himself to be so humiliated. He had promised her that he would have her as his bride. She did not fear his desire for her as much as she feared his lust for power and his terrible purpose caused by the Oath of Fëanor.
To top it all off, her father would never give up the search for his beloved. She wondered how far his scouts would travel before they gave up hope.
*******
The lovers spent many weeks with the folk of Brethil, and Lúthien relished every moment of it. The couple agreed not to reveal anything about the Quest. Beren was certain that these poor, simple people would only send them away if they knew what they intended. They did not want the wrath of the Enemy to crush them for housing a daft She-Elf and a madman temporarily.
At last, Lúthien saw men, women, children and the elderly. Such interesting people mortals were. They came in all shapes and sizes. The men could be rugged and handsome like Beren or elfin and fair. Not all of them wore beards, and most of them had families. The elderly were full of wisdom and looked after the young as the young cared for them. The women were beautiful, and the children! Children were everywhere! Lúthien had never known such a privilege. There were always too few Elvin-children, even in Doriath where it was safe to have them. She yearned more than ever for a normal life with Beren, with their son or their daughter, playing with numerous playmates in a small village, careless of the world outside.
At first, Lúthien was treated with awe and fear. The men of the village were Elf-friends, of course, but knowing that she was the daughter of Thingol and a Half-Maia, they did not know what to make of her. There was little friendship between the Sindar and the Edain. They knew of Thingol’s frightening edict forbidding any children of Man in his lands and feared they would be found out and destroyed. All they knew of the Eldar was what they learned from the Noldor, a very different tribe of Elves. They knew even less of the Maiar, and some worshiped them as gods. She gave her word that she would never reveal the colony to her father and reassured them that her father was not a tyrant. And so Lúthien was treated as a goddess. She was beautiful, powerful, even benevolent, and unapproachable.
As for Beren, he was no less an astonishing person. Bran and his people wondered to themselves: who is this man was that claims lordship over us and has the affection of this lovely Elvin-princess? Beren son of Barahir was reported dead during the Battle of the Bragollach, or so they had been told. Had he been saved by the Elf-princess, or even brought back from the dead? One wild tale after another was told. Thus, it was very difficult for Lúthien and Beren to make normal conversation. The villagers treated them with respectful courtesy.
Despite the reverence and cloak of dread that had been wrapped about them, they continued to do their part in the village. They helped tend to the crops and were eager to aid the villagers in all things. Beren brought game to Brac’s table, and Lúthien looked after the children while their mothers were preoccupied and treated the ill. The villagers soon learned to trust them and even warmed to them.
“Do Elves ever die?” the children were full of questions. “How old are you?”
“Of course we can die,” she answered. “We can be wounded mortally, just not as easily as mor... I mean, as easily as you. As for me, I am considered of one of the younger generations. I was born a few years before the Rising of the Sun and Moon. My father was born at the Waters of Awakening, and my mother is one of Ilúvatar’s servants.”
The children gasped in amazement. Such passionate and curious creatures man-children were, and so fragile. During their play they often cut or bruised themselves in a fall. Lúthien had to take special care with them. Unlike Elvin-children, they needed governance. And yet, they were such a joy. They allowed her to join in their games, and the villagers held a feast for their guests. There was singing and dancing, and Lúthien and Beren returned to their bed, forgetting for a moment of their sorrows and impending doom.
But their stay in Brethil was not without its shadows. The thought of the Quest was always upon them. Beren would awaken in the middle of the night with nightmares of his torture and losses in Sauron’s Isle. They would lie together under the stars each night, wrapped in the same fur. They spoke briefly of what they might attempt to complete the Quest, but they seldom came to any conclusions. Each time they spoke of it, they became more doubtful as they listed the dangers and flawed plans.
During the time that they stayed, Lúthien grew fond of a certain family. There was a young widow named Púriel, her father Guerin, and her nephew Branagan. Púriel was childless, for her husband had gone before they could have children. She was beautiful, kind, and hardworking. Guerin was ailing, more like a child than a man. He was half-blind and half-deaf, and when he heard what was said, he forgot it most of the time. Lúthien often looked into his dull eyes and wondered if Beren would become like him one day and shuddered. He would grow weak and dispirited. He might even grow ill and die... She could never stay long in the face of death and decay. She did not like to think of Beren’s demise. Despite his age, though, Guerin could, on occasions, speak up and say something utterly profound so that he seemed a man again. He was also good-natured, and obviously enjoyed the company of others.
“You are one of the Undying, aren’t you?” Púriel asked Lúthien one day. “Is it true that Time can heal any hurt?”
“What kind of hurt?”
“Say, the death of your husband? You have all the time in the world to forget them, but do you?”
Lúthien stammered, “I-I do not know. I have not yet lost one that I love...”
Púriel laughed mirthlessly, “They say that the Eldar are all full of wisdom and sorrow, but you seem more to me like a little maid. Well, I do not believe the saying that time will heal your grief. I believe that time only heals the wound, but it does not draw out the poison. The poison goes inward until it reaches your heart and turns it into black ice.”
“Did your husband die of a sickness?”
“No, he died on the battlefield defending the Noldor!” she answered bitterly. “And so now our line is dead save for Branagan, and who knows how long that child will be around?”
Lúthien was picking herbs for Púriel’s kitchen when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Branagan, a small boy about six years of age, standing before her with a bundle of many flowers in his arms. It looked as though he had made a little crown of them. She stooped before him, always delighted to interact with children. She had heard talk of this child, but had not spoken with him yet. He was a charming little boy with auburn hair and eyes of sky blue. From the look of him, he had been playing outdoors all day. His boots were caked with mud and his hair in tangles.
“Hello there, Branagan,” she greeted him with a smile. “And what have you been up to?”
His eyes grew wide and he began rushing away.
“Wait, Branagan!” she called after him. “I wanted to talk to you.”
When she spoke of the incident to his aunt that evening, she shook her head but said nothing. She was as silent as the boy had been. When he came to the supper table, Lúthien tried to speak to him again, but he once again dashed away.
“Did I do something wrong?”
It was then that old Guerin stirred from his corner, “Branagan cannot speak, milady. No more than can his dead parents. My daughter never told you, but before she took the boy in, his family lived elsewhere. Their little cottage was waylaid by outlaws. They slew his parents and cut out the boy’s tongue to silence his cries.“
“Men did this?”
She could not believe it. Her father had told her that Men did worse, but she had only half-believed the tales. Celegorm had spoken ill of the race too. She had seen nothing but goodness in the hearts of these villagers. Such behavior was common in Orcs, not Man.
“Aye. To our shame, it was our own kind. The boy was worth a ransom though, so they sent his tongue to his father’s kin here as proof they had the child. The ransom broke the family coffer, but at least the boy is alive. For now.”
“What do you mean? For now?”
“He had a sickness in his lungs. Our wise-woman says that no herb can cure it, only ease the coughing and wheezing. He grows weaker every day. He barely eats. In truth I do not blame the boy. I cannot chew food so well anymore, but at least I can taste it. Branagan cannot.”
“But he is a child!” Lúthien protested.
Children were not supposed to grow deathly sick. A common cold, a fever, a rash, those were the sorts of illnesses children were wont to get. They were not supposed to die at six. By rights the old man should be the one ill. It made no sense to her. Finrod and Púriel’s husband had died in battle. Guerin would die of old age. Those she could accept. But she had never heard of a child dying.
“You cannot imagine, milady. Half of the children born to a mother and father die within their first four years. Infants are as vulnerable as the old.”
“And your children?”
The old man thought for a moment, “My wife bore to me five children. The first was a boy, stillborn. We never named him. The second was Gertrude, and she died in the cradle. Then there was Brandon who lived to be a man and was slain by those outlaws. Then there was Púriel and her twin Pate. Pate died at three when he fell and broke himself climbing trees. He was over fond of climbing if you ask me.”
“Why did you never name the first child?”
Guerin shrugged, “Why name it? It never took a breath outside the womb. Giving it a name would only add more pain to the memory. My wife was grieved enough. We buried the little babes we lost. When we buried Brandon and Branagan came to us mute and orphaned, she lost her taste for life and death. It was not long before she was alying with her children.”
“What robbed her of her life?”
“Her own hand.”
Lúthien did not know what to say. The old man spoke true, but she could not imagine such pain.
“How do you cope with so much loss?” she had to know.
The old man smiled, “I think of them all every day. Even the unnamed one. I especially think of my wife. It has not been so long since she been gone. Sometimes when Púriel speaks to me I mistaken her for my Lily, or I might forget that Branagan is my grandson and I call him Bran. So everyone thinks I am daft or losing my wits. I let them think that. Perhaps then they will not be quite so upset when I am gone. I do not want to be gone yet though. I am hoping that my daughter-in-law will wed again and have children of her own so that something of my family goes on. Besides, no one can choose the hour of their death. My wife was too aggrieved to wait for hers.”
He looked at the flowers upon her brow and smiled. He spoke again in a lighter tone.
“Did my grandson give you those?”
“Yes, I wanted to ask him why.”
“Every spring, the villagers put on quite the festival to celebrate. They choose the fairest maid to be crowned the Queen of Spring. Every year it is a new girl. Spring is long since passed, but Branagan wished to crown you anyway. He is a shy little boy, made worse by his trauma. But he has always enjoyed the Spring Festival and admires pretty maids.”
“He will not die. I will not allow him to die,” Lúthien said with sudden determination.
Guerin laughed, “Silly She-Elf. Your race may be skilled in healing and live forever, but you cannot hope to know half of what mine know of death! What makes you think you can stop it? It is, after all, our gift by Ilúvatar.”
“A cruel gift from some cruel deity!” she said with a resentment for Eru and the Valar that she had never known. “To give such a gift whether the receiver wants it or not! They cannot even choose when they receive it!”
And why grant death to one race and longevity to the other? she also wondered but did not say aloud. Why kill a baby in the womb and let an old man suffer long after? Why should it be the same with Beren and I? He will be as a stillborn and I will live on until his bones are dust.
“Branagan will not die,” she said again. And neither will Beren.
Perhaps once the Quest for the Silmaril was through, they would discover a way to avoid the Doom of Man. If they succeeded at all. The grim facts said that they could not hope to do that.
And so Lúthien called often upon little Branagan. She used all of her healing arts, from herbs and spells to songs and cheer. The people thought that it was odd to see the strange maiden with the mute boy but saw no harm in it. The healers knew her efforts to cure the boy were futile but restrained their tongues. At least the boy had a friend in her. Few understood the orphan boy that could not talk.
“It is a wonderful thing you are doing for the child,” Beren said. “But I fear he is getting worse. Surely you must see it.”
“I know,” Lúthien said sadly. “But I have grown to love the boy. Is that also a crime? They have told me that loving you is unnatural. Is wanting Branagan to live so desperately wrong?”
“No.”
And as the weeks passed Branagan grew weaker. His coughs became more frequent. In his last days he remained in bed, too weak to rise and coughing constantly. Lúthien implored the Valar to spare him, but they seemed mute as well. She was praying when Beren interrupted.
“The boy is calling for you.”
“How?”
“His aunt and grandfather tell me that he keeps pointing to the flowers you gave him and moaning. Just because he has no tongue does not mean he cannot make some sounds. He wants to see you, and the healers say he will not last long.”
She rushed to his bedside. The boy managed to sit up in bed and reach for her. She lifted him into her arms, this broken boy who had lost his mother. It was likely that all he had ever wanted in his life was his mother. She rocked him and sang him a lullaby about sleep as she gave him the final herbs that would make him slip into soundless sleep. And as she wept she felt his grip upon her loosen, his breathing became slower. His heart beat became fainter. He closed his eyes and never opened them again. The color drained from his face, and his own warmth left him.
Púriel and Guerin wanted to hold him. Lúthien surrendered him reluctantly. And when she did she ran to the forest blindly, seeking the refuge of the trees, the earth beneath her feet, the stars in the sky. Beren came to her where she sat before the largest tree, weeping for the child that had died in her arms.
“You wanted him to live, I know,” he said gently. “He has gone to his mother and father now.”
“How do you know? No one knows the fate of Man beyond death!“
“We have to believe that we go on as well as our loved ones.“
“But he was a child! He should be running about with the other children, whole and healthy. And his father should be there to teach him, and his mother to comfort him. He should have grown and had his own wife and children and lived to see their children and their children’s children.”
“You forget that he was mortal. And so am I.”
“Yes, so are you. Will I have to watch the color drain from your face like that sooner than I thought? Will you be in my arms, or will you be cut down by the Enemy? Will you catch a cough in our travels and never be cured? A cough is what killed that poor child. It can kill a man as well. Is there no escaping it?”
“None that I know of.”
“How long would Branagan have lived if he had not been ill? What is a Man’s lifespan?”
“Bëor lived to be over a hundred. The Edain are known for their long lives. Some candles burn out before others.”
She turned to him, tears in her eyes, “I wish that I was mortal. Yes, mortal. I wish that I had never been born as one of the Eldar. I should have been born in a small village amongst Men. Then I would not be Princess of Doriath, always under the eye of my people and sought after by princes. There is no less evil in Men than there are Elves. I have learned that lesson well. It is only masked and painted over prettily. I could have a simple life amongst simple people. I could love you without fear of retribution, and I would know that if you died… I at least did not have to wait forever to rejoin you. Time is different for Men. The Eldar do not make many calendars or keep much track of how they spend time because they have so much of it. Men make use of their time because they know that only life is important.”
Beren was astonished, but could not help smiling, “Many of my people would prefer to live forever as the Eldar can. You wish you were human now, and yet you feared me the first time you met me.”
“I was ignorant. Now I have seen your people, Beren. I cannot say that I understand them, but I have come to love them. I shall never forget the lessons they have taught me. Nor Púriel and Guerin. Nor Branagan. But I know we cannot remain here forever, and we endanger those around us. We must leave soon.”
Beren hesitated, then said, “Tinúviel, what will become of you should I perish? What would you do? Where would you go?”
“I have wondered those same questions thousands of times, and each time I came up with a different answer. None of them were pleasant to my mind, so I will not repeat them. All I know is that we must think of now. Branagan is dead, and the quest is yet unfinished. That is enough to mull over for now.”
“When I awoke in that pit to find you there, you lay as one dead.”
“So did you.”
“We had both thought each other lost then. Would you have left that pit if I had truly been dead?”
Lúthien hated these pointed questions and knew he would not like the answers. Instead she said, “Branagan was six years old. If the Valar had been generous perhaps we might have been born of the same race and had a child like him. He was a healthy, happy boy before those outlaws. I could read his heart, and his eyes were always shining, though no one could see it. Words are wind. Huan and Branagan could speak but little, but their eyes say much and more. As do yours and mine. Read my eyes, Beren.”
“I can see them now.”
“And what do they say?”
“That you may have never left that pit.”
Branagan was buried the next morning. For some strange reason, the village seemed emptier and even quieter. The boy had meant more to the villagers than they had known, despite being mute and shy. Lúthien was far less cheerful, and Beren seemed troubled. For several days the couple did nothing and said less to each other. A tension was between them, and a reluctance to leave. They were safe here for now. The villagers would never turn them out, and nothing but perils lie ahead. They meant to leave, but leaving was hard.
Finally Beren announced that they would be leaving. They would burden the villagers no more. They had much to do before they returned to where they belonged. The villagers all gave them their blessings. They gave them ample supplies, more than they needed in truth. They took all that they could carry since they had not the heart to refuse. Lúthien visited Púriel and Guerin one last time. They had a special gift for her. A garland of flowers for her hair.
“I promise that we will return if we can,” she said. “Beren and I or not at all.”
“You will always be welcome,” Púriel answered.
But as Lúthien went out the door, Guerin whispered, “You know you cannot keep your lover forever either.”