Chapter 2 Beren Camlost

Two
Beren Camlost

Emeldir, wife of Barahir and Lady of the Edain had many conflicting emotions when her son was born during the cold and desolate winter of 440 during the First Age of Middle-Earth. Dorthonion had seen far worse winters, but in the city of Ladros, the cold had taken its toll upon many infants. The land of Dorthonion was as close to the North and the Enemy as one could possibly get in the free and civilized world. The little kingdom of Men was founded upon a plateau with the dreaded mountains of Ered Gorgoroth to the South. These features offered some protection in times of war. Their House had been given the land to guard the realm, for beyond the sparsely forested realm of evergreens and marshy moors was nothing but vast wasteland until one came to the doorstep of Angband and the accursed Morgoth.
When King Finrod of the Noldor entrusted Barahir with Dorthonion, he had placed a great honor and heavy burden upon Man. But they were fiercely proud of their part in guarding Beleriand and grateful for a land to call their own.
Emeldir was relieved with the birth. Her first and foremost duty to her husband was complete. She had borne him a healthy male heir that would carry on the line of the Elder Men. She adored the tiny babe at her breast and loved him as much as her husband did. Barahir showered her with gifts, praised her for the life she had brought forth, and named the child Beren. But, she told herself, he would not be her little baby forever. The practiced tradition among the Edain was to have others foster their children. Usually, their uncles raised the boys. But, for a noble with blood as old and as high as Beren’s, Barahir might decide to send him to the far off Hidden Kingdom of Nargothrond to be fostered by one of King Finrod’s Elvin-vassals. Barahir himself had been so fostered, along with his brother Bregolas. The Elder children had been taught much that they knew from the Elves, and there could be no better teachers.
The decision as to who would rear their child and where was not Emeldir’s to make unfortunately, even though she was his mother. Nor was it her husband’s choice. They waited anxiously for the King’s messenger to appear. He would be the one to decide. If the lord was satisfied with the boy upon inspection, he may agree to foster him then and there. Or, of course, he might also refuse him. If Beren was refused, the shame would be great, but at least he would be fostered among his own kin and never far from home.
But there was something else that hung over the new mother’s head when she looked upon the infant’s face that steadily worsened as he grew. He did not smile for the longest time. Most babes smiled at their mothers by the second or third month, but not her son. Beren never smiled until long after, and that was very seldom. He was healthy without the slightest infirmity, and yet she knew, in her mother’s heart, that something was amiss. She feared for his future.
Emeldir had her child, now a fussy toddler, in her lap. He was howling for some reason or other, but it was not due to hunger or want of fresh swaddling. Her husband was going over accounts with the steward. She tried to soothe him when one of her servants entered the room, saying that a rider had arrived and had a fair look about him. Barahir and Emeldir knew at once what that must mean. Barahir ordered him to bring the stranger to him and treat him with respect.
The King’s messenger stepped into the room cloaked and hooded, but he threw back that hood and it seemed that he had thrown away a veil. He had come from the Hidden Kingdom of Nargothrond and was one of the High-Elves, or those of the Noldor. He looked more like one of the Vanyar. He had golden locks, and his eyes were blue, and unlike human eyes. They were very bright, and his ears, which they noted most of all, were pointed. That characteristic has always been the telltale sign for the Eldar.
The messenger saw Beren and gave a most beguiling smile. The child was still wailing in his mother’s lap, and he held out his hands.
“You must excuse me, lady,” he said to Emeldir. “I have never seen so small a Man-child, and there are not many Elf-children these days. May I?”
Emeldir was unwilling for the messenger to take Beren off of her hands. This Elf had come to take her child from her in a few years, after all. Then she reluctantly surrendered him, and the Elf took Beren in his arms very gently and began to speak in his own tongue as he rocked him, a rich, pleasant language, and the sound of it, and the light of this messenger’s eyes caused Beren to fall into sound sleep. He set Beren into a nanny’s arms to be put in his crib and greeted the lord of the Edain, for they were on familiar terms. Emeldir let them alone, deciding that she would oversee a feast for their guest. She, too, recognized him and was certain their son would not be refused from Nargothrond. He would keep his honor but not his home.
Barahir offered his foster-father some wine, which he refused with a wave of his hand.
“Arminas! I am so glad to see you!”
“How has my old pupil been?”
“Old? I daresay I am, and I am well content. You have seen my son.”
“Yes. He is a handsome boy. How old is he now?”
“He is two years old.”
“He is much like you in looks. I just hope he will not act like you when you were only a mortal boy of five years come to Nargothrond for your education. You were headstrong and always looking to break rules. I do not doubt Beren shall be any different when it is time for his studies. Now, here you are, a powerful lord, a husband, a father, and already starting to grow gray hair!”
Barahir almost choked on his wine, “I have gray hair?”
The two burst into laughter. Barahir ran his fingers through his hair, priming himself. There were flecks of silver in his hair while Arminas’ was golden without the slightest touch of frost. They started in again until they were out of breath. Neither said a word for a moment, and when their eyes met, they started chuckling again.
“You always manage to stir up laughter, Arminas,” Barahir said. “And here, I have not even finished my first glass of wine! To you!”
He drained his glass and reached for the cask for another bottle, but Arminas stopped him.
“Leave it. I know you,” he said sternly.
“Are you going to lecture me about intoxication again, Arminas? I remember getting drunk when I was sixteen and falling out of the guard tower! You were so pale when I fell, and then you became very scarlet when I reminded you that you drank three times as much as I.”
“Yes,” Arminas chided. “It was fortunate for you that you were near enough to the ground to survive. As for me, I could hold my liquor. You never could, but that is not what I am here to talk about. I just know that sooner or later you shall glut yourself with wine when you hear what I have to say. Just do not glut yourself now.”
Barahir nodded, seeing the grave look in his old mentor’s eye, and he put the cask away.
“Well, now that we come to it, why are you here, if not to accept my son as a fosterling as I was to you? Did you come all this way just to visit me?”
Arminas shook his head slowly.
“I see,” Barahir muttered.
Arminas leaned forward, placing his hand upon his shoulder, and handed him a letter that bore the seal of the King upon it, the emblem of two entwined serpents, one devouring a jeweled flower at the top center while the other devoured his tail. That was the mark of King Finrod. Barahir had known what it was beforehand, and he only stared at it and did not receive it.
“You knew this was coming,” Arminas whispered. “You bear the foresight of your people. Of course, I shall take the boy, when you see it fit, but it remains to be seen who will foster him.”
Barahir was astonished, “But if you will not foster him, who will?”
“King Finrod has not decided yet. The boy shows promise and I fear that his training may be delayed due to the increasing Enemy activity. Who knows when they shall strike and when I shall have to march to war? Thankfully, it has not come to that yet. That may be a long way off, but let us hope I am not wrong.”
The lord of the Edain had been called to the defense of Beleriand. Orc raiders had smuggled their way into Beleriand and were raiding Nargothrond and the borders of Doriath. Barahir could not refuse the summons of his king, and he knew that Finrod himself had penned the handwriting upon the letter. It was not full blown war, but King Finrod would require his presence for advice and to represent his people.
Emeldir was furious at this news. It meant that there was no knowing when he would come home.
“What about our son? What shall I tell him? When he asks for you, must I tell him that I do not know and that you may be dead?”
“You do not have to tell him anything. Give him to me and he will understand. I must leave in the morning when it is full light. The city does need guarding, and it is not likely I will return soon, but do not worry for my life.”
Emeldir handed the baby carefully to him, and he awoke. Where was the one with the bright eyes? The babe blinked.
“My son, listen carefully. I must be gone tomorrow, and you may not see me for a long amount of time. You must stay and help your mother.”
Then Barahir took up his paraphernalia, kissed his wife and son, and left with Arminas his old mentor.
Beren did not see his father for three years. Emeldir ruled in her husband’s name while he was absent, and she ruled just was well as he. She was of the Edain and had the blood of the Elder Men in her same as Barahir. She kept the lord’s justice and kept his peace as well. The soldiers of Dorthonion were always on guard and the troubles of the realm endless, so Beren’s mother had little time for him. Only now and then would he stop during breakfast when she was still dazed and ask what she had heard of her lord, but he seldom got any news from her. No one knew what Barahir was doing. He was fighting in Nargothrond, ranging the forest of Brethil, fighting before Thangorodrim. It was all fantasy.
Beren changed much over that time. He grew to be a boy tall for his age and wiser than his years. He was stern and cold of mood, for though he never would confess it, he was grieved that his father was often abroad. The child was very reclusive. He did not get along very well with the other boys because he frowned upon childish things. After all, he had no siblings or friends as play mates and he had a temper that was easily provoked. He was obedient to his mother and gentle to those who knew him. He asked his mother to teach him to read when he was four so that he could read books of war and of Elvin-lore. Such things held him in thrall. Since he had read his first book on weapons, he had pestered his mother for a small sword of his own, or even a little dagger, but she strongly rebuked him.
“Do you know if he will come back?” Beren asked his mother.
“Who?”
“Fa… I mean the Lord.”
“Do you want him to come back?”
“I do not know,” Beren mused. “It would take getting used to. It has always been just you and I, Mother.”
“Well, I believe your father will come back, so you must be prepared. He may come to the door tomorrow, or the next evening, or years from now. He did not ask to go. The King summoned him.”
“And the tales tell me that Finrod is one of the greatest kings that the world has seen. No messenger would need to make the journey to summon me. I would have already left and have been standing by his side, equipped for battle. I am to be fostered there soon.”
“Perhaps, but a boy your age has no family of his own to look after yet. Your father loves you, but you already knew that.”
Beren did not answer.
“I hope that you would remember this. Now go…” suddenly she remembered that he did not play and heaved a sigh. “Go see if there is any chore you might help the servants with.”
When Beren came out to find the eavesdropper there, he clenched his fist,“ What are you doing?”
The boy was one of the stable boys and was not permitted near his mother’s bower, but he replied, “I came to inform the wench that her horse foaled.”
“Watch what you say about my mother! She is the boss here.”
“Now that your father is gone, you mean? Where’s he got to? Dead likely. Or maybe the King of the Fairies will not let him leave.”
Beren could not tolerate the slights to his parents and to his King. He hit the stable boy until several guardsmen pulled him away. By then the boy was bruised and bloody.
His father was released from service the next day and he took with him a name of glory. Of course, the troubles of the realm were far from over. It had merely been granted a respite. He was eager to see his wife and child.
He came to the gates of the house to see Beren sitting up in one of the big oak trees, carving himself a bow. He was not finished with it, but it was surprisingly strong and limber, and he was proud of it. His mother would snap it in half if she saw it, but that did not matter. He knew many places where he could hide it.
Barahir did not recognize his son, nor did Beren recognize him. He had simply been too young.
“You there! Young lad!”
Beren looked up from his bow and saw a man clothed in a travel-worn cloak with a shaggy beard and unkempt hair. He thought sharply that it must be a beggar of some sort or a rogue, quite the opposite of what he should have known.
“Are you a traveler, sir?” he asked. “If so, then you must stay with the locals. The village is back that way on the road you now stand. This is the house of Lord Barahir.”
“I am perfectly aware of that, child,” Barahir said, and Beren stirred at being called child in such a manner, just as Barahir was irritated by the fact that he had called him sir. “Bring me the lady of the house. I am in need of food and rest.”
“Then you must turn back as I told you, sir,” Beren insisted. “The lady has other matters, and I am sure that the villagers will not mind taking in one so footsore into their homes for the night.”
“Where is Emeldir?”
Beren was angry on behalf of his mother, for this ‘peasant’ was referring to her by her name and not by her title. He narrowed his eyes.
“Who are you?”
“I am Barahir son of Bregor, lord of the Edain!”
Beren’s lips parted in his surprise, and his eyes widened a little, but he recovered. He did not truly believe that this was his father.
“Who are you?”
“Must I repeat my title to you? Are you an idiot child?”
Beren stared aghast at these words, but then he hardened and answered, “If you truly were my father, then perhaps you would recognize me.”
With those cruel words, he ran toward the house to fetch his mother. It was Barahir’s turn to be amazed, and he stressed himself for having stared his son in the face and never guessed. But Beren did not regret his words and did not regret them until many years later.
“Mother, who is this stranger?” he asked of her. “I like not the looks of him. He looks like a beggar. Throw him out through the gates and do not let him return!”
Then Emeldir scolded the boy.
“This is your father, Beren! This is the man that gave birth to you! He has returned from war, and you have shamed him. Do you not remember the face of your lord? What kind of son does not know his own father?”
Then Beren gaped at him. He did not reject him, but neither did he fully accept him as his father. He did not call him father, and only gave him colorful names if he spoke to him at all. Barahir was deeply injured by this wedge between him and his own child, and he did not know how to reach his son. He had missed so much of his boyhood, but he was tending his weapon one day when Emeldir whispered to him that Beren wished for a blade of his own. Barahir gave him one of his old swords, and Beren was fascinated. He saw the blade and knew it was not made of ordinary metal or steel, and he saw the runes running along the blade. When Barahir saw such interest in his eyes, he told his son that he could have it.
“But be careful,” Barahir warned. “It will cut your hand as aught else.”
“Father, is it indeed an Elvin-blade?” Beren asked.
“What did you call me?”
“Father.”
“It is an Elvin-blade,” Barahir answered, his heart rising with encouragement, and he lifted Beren to his lap. For the first time, the boy allowed him to. “This blade was made in Nargothrond where King Finrod dwells, and there, great wealth and power are beheld. There too, belongs the majesty of all good things in Middle-Earth.”
“Are there many towers there in Nargothrond? I have read several books written by idiotic dreamers that never laid eyes on the city but wrote about it anyway. One writer said that Nargothrond was a city of living trees. Of course, I know this not to be true. Nargothrond is a city delved into caves. Or is that true?”
Barahir then told his son many tales about Nargothrond, and the boy became very excited.
“Did King Finrod give this to you as a gift?”
“Yes. And this, I think, will be do well enough as a sword for you. The king gave it to me himself when I was your age. Carry it with honor, and it will please him to know that it has become an heirloom of the house of Bëor!”
The boy's eyes widened with delight, but he dropped it and bowed his head.
“What is it?”
“I do not know how to wield it.”
“Then let your father be your teacher.”
Then Emeldir laughed as she watched her husband and her son from afar, and Beren truly looked to be a prince with the sword in his hands. And when the boy's birthday came, Barahir had an even greater gift to give.
“Emeldir,” Barahir said to his wife. “I think he is ready. It is time he took his place as a man of the Edain!”
“What do you mean, lord?” Beren asked eagerly.
“We are going to Nargothrond, and you shall be brought before King Finrod and the High-Elves. You shall be announced as the heir of the Edain. You shall also receive schooling from them. The Elves have always been our mentors. They will choose a foster-father for you in time. May you learn all that he has to teach.”
“Yippee!”
The boy ran off to pack his things.
Emeldir paled and said, “No! Allow the boy to stay among his mother's kin for a few more years yet!”
“When shall I take my place beside my king in battle?” Beren demanded impatiently.
“You are much too young, my son.”
“I am of the house of Bëor, and I want to fight!”
“We have need of an heir, for I fear that war is coming,” Barahir said grimly. “I must name Beren as my heir as soon as possible, and there is no better place to prepare him for that than Nargothrond with the Noldor. Dorthonion will not be safe. Look how excited he is!”
Emeldir was forced to submit to her husband's will. She had dreaded this day, but the stone was set. It did not make the pain any easier. Many of the other boys of Ladros that had been chosen as wards for Elvin-lords were going to Nargothrond to be schooled. They ranged in age, but none were older than twelve or younger than four years old. They set out as one company. They were all Beren’s cousins, some more distant than others. Belegund, Baragund, and Gorlim were his closest kin. They were laughing and talking and seemed to take no notice of him at all. Then Gorlim turned to him. The other boys were four years older than Beren, being eleven years of age, but Gorlim took a liking to Beren.
“Hello, master,” he said.
“Master?”
“You are the heir of our kindred. Baragund, Belegund! This is our future lord! Honor him!”
The twins stopped chattering at once and turned to Beren.
“Hail Beren, lord of the Edain!”
Beren nodded his head in answer and found that these two boys would not stop talking to him once they had been introduced.
“How old are you?” asked one.
“Seven.”
“You are too tall to be seven!” said the other.
“We are going to see Elves!” said Belegund. “I have never seen one.”
“I did,” Baragund boasted.
“No, you did not! You’re a liar!”
“At least I thought it was an Elf.”
“You’re not even a good liar! I bet you go to see Orcs, though, whenever you have the chance!”
“You look like one of them!”
“Do not! You look like an ugly one!”
Beren and Gorlim exchanged meaningful glances.
“I am going to miss father,” Baragund said sadly.
“That’s because you’re his favorite!”
“Am not!”
“Are too!”
“At least I’m not a mamma’s boy!”
“Are not!”
“Are too!”
Beren checked his horse and fell back behind them, and Gorlim did the same.
“Don’t mind them,” he said. “They do not have much sense, though they say two heads are better than one. Perhaps they prove that old saying wrong. My name‘s Gorlim.”
“It is good to know my own blood,” Beren answered.
“I am not going to miss Dorthonion. It is a rather stark and insignificant place. The only thing that I am leaving behind is my mother, and she is too busy with her suitors to bother with me.”
“What of your father?”
Gorlim grimaced for a moment and answered, “Unfortunately, my father did not return from the defenses of Nargothrond.”
Beren said nothing. He knew that it was probably better to say nothing rather than say something hurtful with clumsy words.
Never had Beren seen the strange folk of Elves, save Arminas when he was too young to remember clearly, and it was Arminas that came to them now. He came riding upon his white horse with an escort of his servants, shining like the sun, and Beren recognized him immediately.
“You! I know you!” he cried, surprised at his outburst of emotion, and his cousins began laughing. “I remember that you sang to me years ago! You are going to be my foster-father, are you not?”
“Quite sharp are you?” Arminas answered, smiling. “That is excellent! An heir of a lord must be clever. But you have grown so much! I am afraid that the power of my voice shall not work magic for you any longer. No, I will not be your foster-father. That task is for someone else.”
He got down from his horse and dismissed the faithful beast with a wave of his hand. He sat at the table with the lord and lady, drinking wine like a drunkard but speaking clearly and still quite sober and alert. He was not drunk at all, though he had drank enough to intoxicate any man.
“I wish I could do that,” Belegund whispered. “This Elf is my hero! Look at all the ale he’s taken!”
The Elf sang Beren to sleep that night. He still had that power, and Beren was enticed by the light in his eyes. His voice was a luscious baritone.
“Are all Elves like you?” he asked.
“Like me?” Arminas was quite startled.
“Yes! You are so beautiful and a mystery always slowly unfolding like a flower!”
“Are all mortals like you? You do not even begin to realize what a mystery you are!”
Beren laughed. Again, he was amazed at himself. He laughed seldom.
“Well,” he said, “I do not get along with the other boys. They fear me.”
“As they feared your father.”
“I am not like my father.”
“Oh really?” Arminas studied him closely. “I do not think so.”
Soon afterward, they made their way into Nargothrond, the city itself. Beren looked upon the splendor of the Caves through the eyes of a boy. The children were presented before the royal court, and when Finrod first beheld them all, the other boys trembled, though Beren was not afraid. Finrod looked young and was a good-natured fellow, but he seemed somehow ancient and wise. Finrod was also one of the fairest of the Eldar, and could be as terrible an Elvin-warrior as he was fair. Finrod spoke to him as though he were truly a full-grown man, heir of the highest and most faithful houses of Men.
“I have never seen such eyes of stormy gray in my life time, and that is saying much,” the king said of Beren. “No doubt you are farsighted, in more ways than one.”
“My king,” the boy knelt at once, forgetting it was not elfish custom.
“Rise, heir of the Edain! Allies do not kneel. If anyone should kneel, it should be me. I am tall. Too tall, I fear.”
So Finrod lowered himself upon all fours with a grin. The other boys laughed, and Beren found himself smiling. Finrod was just as he had imagined a king to be, and the city of Nargothrond beautiful and vast.
“Now you must be wondering who it is that will foster you.”
Beren was suddenly afraid. He had never really thought about who would foster him. His father seemed to think that Arminas would foster him, but he had denied that claim. He hoped whoever his foster-father was would not be too strict.
The King smiled, “I will foster you myself.”
The whole court and score of retainers was shocked, including Beren himself. King Finrod had never taken a ward, especially one of alien race.
Finrod taught him much wisdom that proved to be a chief shaping in the boy's life. He often wondered what kind of man he might have become without him. He told Beren that a lord's son must be educated in reading and writing as well as in weapons and war. He learned arithmetic and astronomy, as well as philosophy and some of the art of science. He learned all three of the Elvin tongues, Noldor, Sindar, and Silvan and memorized much of their poems and songs by heart. The Elves were also his teachers concerning Ilúvatar and the Valar, for the ancients of the Noldor had spoken with the Valar themselves.
He was Finrod’s ward and spent most of his time in the House of Play with the other children. The House of Play was not a house, but a place where all the children of Nargothrond went to stay when their parents were gone or busy with their duties, or if they simply wanted to meet their friends and get away from their own home. It was a nursery as well as a library. There, Beren often roamed the hallways and collaborated with the other boys of his house and with a few Elvin-children.
These children were much older than any human children, and several of the other boys were afraid of them. Even Gorlim was more circumspect when he was about them. But Beren seemed to enjoy their company. After all, children are children, and very much alike. While the other boys were playing or chasing after the girls, Beren was found studying or practicing with great determination on his fencing techniques with the Elf-children. They found him quite interesting, for a mortal, and they held him in high regard. It also made others envious.
One day, when Beren was thirteen, an Elvin-boy, the only child there that feared Beren and was jealous of him, called him names and tried to provoke him into wrath so that he would lose his place among the Elvin-children.
“You must be a giant compared to your kind,” he said one day. “Many of your people are stunted like the Naugrim!”
“Like a Dwarf?”
“Exactly! And then they grow beards so that they look even more so like little, twisted old men!”
“What did you say?” he had Beren’s attention.
“Even the Edain sometimes grow beards and cannot keep themselves clean.”
Beren replied by spilling his ink bottle upon the boy‘s fine cloth of gold vest. “Oh, my hand slipped, I am afraid. Now you are dirtier than I am. Oh well, a good washing is all the fabric needs. It looks as though you have rubbed some of the ink upon your nose now! It is on your hands too!”
The boy did not answer. He was fuming with rage.
“Of course,” Beren continued, still very calmly, “I realize you must be a very active boy. Therefore, you may be excused of your messy looks, and I will also excuse your rudeness, although, I must remind you that you are of the Eldar. Besides, my mother told me that a beard is the sign of a seasoned man.”
“They only make you look as ancient and dry as an old oak!” the other snapped. “It is unnatural, I say.”
“Pointy ears is unnatural, I say.”
The other children laughed good-naturedly with Beren. The Elvin-boy was humiliated and instead of insulted the others were amused! He sought to strike back at Beren in any way he could. He threw a play sword at Beren's feet with the most competitive grin upon his face.
“I challenge you to a match,” he said. “Do you accept?”
“Gladly,” Beren answered, snatching it up. “I have been itching for a match lately.”
The children gathered round to watch. Beren and the Elvin-boy circled each other, and then gave a courteous bow. They clashed their swords together and began the match. The two boys tried a few simple tricks with their swords and laughed at the fun they were having. Beren was just toying with the Elvin-boy, and so he won the match quite easily. His father had taught him well, and Finrod himself was not a bad swordsman. The Elvin-boy was merely the apprentice of a cobbler and seldom touched swords.
“I win,” Beren said, grinning.
“I request a rematch,” the Elvin-boy said. “And this time I shall win.”
“I will grant your request,” Beren said. “But this time, I shall hold back a little for you. You are only a novice, judging by your performance.”
The Elvin-boy frowned at that, and his anger boiled over. They began the second match, and the two boys were making quite a show of contest, but then the Elvin-youth stuck out his foot and tripped Beren so that he fell full upon his face. Beren was a hot-tempered boy, and he had great pride being a man and a lord's son.
The boys about them began laughing, and the little maids gasped and cried aloud, fearful that Beren had received hurt, but he was not hurt. At least nothing was hurt but his pride. He quickly recovered from the fall, ignoring the pain and the blood that trickled from his nose. He took hold of the other boy's ankle. There was a cracking sound, and Beren threw him to the floor beside him and sprang to his feet. The Elvin-boy rolled away from him, stunned. He tried to recover as Beren had done, but he realized that Beren had broken his ankle. Beren was quite strong, though he was still quite young and of lean build. He was one of the strongest of his kin. He threw away his sword and raised his fists instead. The Elvin-boy did the same. Beren managed to give the boy a black eye and justified himself for his nose. At this point, the Elves there that watched over the children sprang from their chairs and pulled them apart
“Engwar! May you and your entire race fall into the hands of Angband and die for all I care! You are only thralls of Morgoth! His chain awaits you!”
Beren recoiled as though he had been struck with a blow. He took most pride in what he was. He was a Man, and this boy had clearly insulted him with everything he had. Engwar in the Elvin-language meant Sickly.
They summoned Finrod. Beren tried to hide from him when he came in, but the Noldoli King had sharp eyes.
“There he is. I had to come in here yesterday also. Two straight days is a record for you, is it not?”
Beren nodded that it was so, and Finrod lectured Beren and demanded that he apologize.
“Never!” Beren answered. “He cheated! He tripped me! And then he called me Engwar! He also called me a thrall! Did you not hear so yourself?”
“Do you know what ‘thrall’ means?”
“It means you are a slave. A slave driven by fear fed only enough to survive and for the purpose that you may toil until you are fit for the job no longer. Do you think me a fool?”
“No. Not at all. It is clear to see that you are wise beyond your years. But you have much to learn, Beren. No matter how old or how wise you are, you must remember that there is always someone older and wiser than you.”
“I do not want to hear any more Elvin proverbs!” Beren snapped. “I know them all by heart!”
“While you fight, you must keep your head and control your temper.”
“He cheated first!” Beren argued.
“And he shall have to apologize for that, but you must also apologize.”
One of the Elvin-maids brought out the other boy, and he stared down at the floor, the bruise over his eye swelling.
“Pardon me, Master,” he said with an effort.
Arminas gave Beren a stern glance.
“I cannot pardon him for the words he said!”
“But I take them back! It was just a stupid game anyway.”
“You are forgiven,” Beren said at last, knowing Finrod would only berate him later if he did not.
“Now you must apologize, Beren.”
Beren turned his head sharply. “What?”
“It was a stupid game. You said so yourself. But you were the one that took it a step farther. You were the aggressor.”
It took all of Beren's strength to ask for his own pardon, which the other boy accepted. Then he was led away, and Beren put his hands on his hips.
“I want justice!” he hissed.
Finrod and the other Elves laughed.
“What would you call justice, Master?”
“That boy should have asked for my pardon and then been punished!”
Finrod shook his head and said, “But he was punished. We made him apologize to you and right his wrongs. You also had to taste the bitterness of it.”
“Which was undeserved. You should have made him pay for cheating. I thought Elves did not cheat. The Enemy started with little games too.”
“Is it not true that some of your kin fear and hate ours and are never anything but violent?”
“You speak of another house of Men. I am one of the Edain, the Elf-friends like my father before me, and it is so for my ancestors all the way back to our ancient sire: Bëor! I am no traitor, nor a cheater!”
“No one accused you of being a traitor, Beren. The word does not suit you. Never mind what that boy said. I shall seek out his father and ask him if his son has no better judgment than he. As for what you said about the Elves cheating, in part, you are right. Elves can be just as wicked as Orcs. The Enemy has more human supporters than any other of the Free People, but they are also his greatest foes.”
“Men are not so vulnerable,” Beren said stubbornly. “At least I am not. I shall prove it to you! All of you!”
”What do you wish to prove with your temper and your ambition, Master?”
“I want to be a warrior! A warrior like my father, and like my king! Enough with all of these little games with sticks. I can no longer stomach books either. Have I not learned enough by now? It is swords that we need to fight the Enemy. Why not send me now? I am a better swordsman than any other boy in the whole of Nargothrond!”
The Elves burst out laughing again. Finrod, however, did not laugh. He crossed his arms across his chest and shook his head in disapproval.
“You want to be a warrior?” he asked. “That is all?”
Beren nodded vigorously.
“Oh really?”
“Yes. I shall be the greatest warrior East of the Sea!”
“And do you have any idea what it means to be a warrior?”
“It means you fight and conquer in the king‘s name. It means you have strength and courage and rewarded for it.”
“I do not think you have the slightest idea what it means.”
Finrod placed the play sword in the boy’s hand and drew one for himself.
“I shall show you what it is like to be a warrior. Just a hint of it, however. Gelmir, I shall need your help, as well as all the rest of you. Beren, choose one of those boys to be your squire. Every warrior has one.”
“Gorlim.”
Gorlim stood and was given a dull blade.
The Elves gathered about. Gelmir began to play a tune on his pipe. When the minstrels of the Eldar played, even those with little skill, it could cause visions and invoke the senses. Finrod began an easy duel with the boy, all the while speaking casually, then more dramatically. Beren heard the Elvin-music and felt as though he was passing into another realm. It seemed that everything had vanished but Arminas before him and Gorlim at his side, and always the music in his ears.
“You have trained all your life,” the king began. “Snatched from your parents only to train, to learn to kill. Many years have passed. You are a young warrior. It has been a long life, though you are still in your youth. It has also been very lonely. You have no children, not even a wife, for that is a warrior’s advantage. There is no family to hinder you from the reaping of flesh. It is hard to make friends, for most do not survive their first real test. Your only companion, the only one you can trust, is the one at your side.”
Beren glanced at Gorlim. They grinned at each other.
“Being a warrior does have its pleasures. You have honor. Many may come to learn your skills. All others respect you. You may even become fat and happy. Peace is here, and you are bored. But war has suddenly erupted. It takes you by surprise, and you must defend your king. You must begin by leaving everything you own behind and march to the slaughter.”
“And defend the king I shall!” Beren answered.
“Ah, but once you are upon the battlefield, your notions change. You change. You strike down a man, only for him to be replaced by two others.”
Two of the servants sprang at Beren with their wooden swords. Beren had to be quick to dodge, and still Finrod gave one steady blow after another, the music droning on and picking up its rhythm. He could see the battlefield about him, not green like it was in the songs and tales. It was stained with red and black blood.
“The battle becomes more pressed, more difficult. Your enemies increase and your strength is failing. Twenty have fallen by your sword, but you are almost spent! But the battle is still going on! You must defend your sworn king! Our beloved Finrod! We cannot lose him! We must not lose him! All will be lost!”
“Hey!” Beren cried as two more Elves began to do battle. The boy had to dive under their legs and was sweating. Rage inflamed him and it seemed that Finrod’s words were becoming reality. He was getting more exhausted all the time. At least Gorlim was there at his aid. He was not very bad at fighting either.
“Your enemies are strong,” Finrod continued. “They are all about! Your head is spinning with the reek of blood and your own putrid sweat and your whole world is revolving with it, faster and faster!”
Gorlim tripped over his feet, and two of the servants had caught him up, disarmed him, and carried him away from the fight. Beren let out a cry.
“Gorlim?”
“No time to save your comrade, Beren!” Finrod caught his attention by hitting the back of his leg with his sword while he was distracted. “He has fallen! You are all alone now. No time for emotion. The only one you need to save is your king!”
The Elves were using all their speed, and they were quicker than Beren. He was hit a few times with the wooden sword. Ouch! That hurt, but Beren endured the pain.
“You are wounded and the Enemy is SCREAMING AT THE TOP OF THEIR LUNGS! DEATH TO THE WITCHES AND THEIR BRIGHT-EYES! DEATH TO THEIR ALLIES, THE CURSED ELF-FRIENDS!”
Beren’s ears felt as though they would burst. Finrod was in his face now, shouting. The other Elves began shouting and hooting like madmen, like Orcs, and with the illusion from the minstrels, they appeared as Orcs.
“Just when you think things could not get worse, it begins to rain and the wind howls and gathers speed.”
Beren could hear the harsh winds, felt cold droplets upon his face and smell the scent of rain.
“YOUR ONLY HOPE IS FOR THE DAWN TO COME, BUT DAWN IS TOO FAR AWAY! THE BATTLE WILL BE LOST!”
Beren could not go on much longer. His muscles were aching and Finrod suddenly drew a real sword. Beren’s eyes widened with shock and fear. This was too real for his comfort.
“Meanwhile, while this is going on . . . ”
Finrod suddenly moved forward too quickly for Beren’s eyes to see. He kicked the boy so that he fell backwards onto the floor. His wooden sword, useless and cleaved in two, fell out of his hand. The music came to an abrupt halt and the illusion dissipated. There was silence, and Beren plummeted back to reality. He was no longer a warrior upon the battlefield. He was only a boy with a broken stick in the House of Play.
The king snatched up the broken stick and frowned.
“The king has been captured, and now, great warrior, you are dead. Some heroes fall while others stand. There is another Elvin proverb for you. If your enemies have not killed you by now, you will only be diminished in spirit. They will drag you back to Angband to make you a thrall. You shall never see the light of another day again. You are utterly defeated.”
Beren was stunned and sat where he was.
The king took a deep breath and said, “War brings much more than glory. They have uncertain outcomes. Being skilled in battle and having a high rank, or even noble birth, does not mean that you are invincible or that a desperate farm boy will not do any better than you. It does not mean at all that you are not going to die. Even if warriors survive, a new battle shall be fought, always. It is an endless cycle. Soon, you forget what you are fighting for. There is nothing worse than disillusion.”
“I still wish to be a warrior,” Beren reassured him.
“There shall soon come a time when you will learn that to be a warrior is very different from being a good soldier or a hero, Master. They all gain glory, but in different ways.”
“I shall be all three.”
“When you say you will be a warrior, a good soldier, and a hero, you are saying that you will become three different people. How can you do that? I have heard of a double life, but this is preposterous!”
“What do you mean?”
“A warrior is someone who fights single-handedly in combat with a lust for battle,” said Gelmir. “A soldier is one that does his duty as well as he can when he is needed. The key word is duty. A hero is quite different. You cannot be all three. To be a hero, you fight with faith and courage. You fight with your heart and soul for Ilúvatar and the realm. Most of us sink only to a common soldier. Which shall you be, Master?”
“I want to be a hero,” they caught the trace of the old echo.
“So you shall be if that is what you choose,” laughed the Elves. “But first, you must become a good soldier and fight for duty rather than blood lust. You fight like a warrior. You must throw away your pride, hero, and ask for your opposer’s pardon. You must be considerate and loving. Once you have become a good soldier, you can become a hero. Someday, you may become a hero, but you must work for that title and not use it as an excuse to fight with your peers.”
“But you will never claim such a title,” said an Elf in the shadows, and Finrod and Gelmir scowled. “Ilúvatar is but a shadow of goodness. There is goodness in all of us, and there is great evil in us as well. There is good in evil, and evil in good, and that is what holds the world in balance. Can not a Man or Elf walk in-between?”
“Excuse me, I have business to attend to,” Finrod said and dismissed himself.
Gelmir looked as though he would have given anything to follow him. “Celegorm! What are you doing here? And what sort of madness may you be jabbering about?”
“We have come to Nargothrond on business of our own,” said Celegorm, and he stepped out of the shadows. “And I speak of only that which I know. I do not pretend to know exactly what ‘Ilúvatar’s cause’ may be. I am not a theologian.”
Celegorm towered over Beren, a black Elvin-bow slung over his shoulder, and his sword plainly visible at his side. Curufin, the Elf's brother, stepped beside him, and the two Elvin-princes frowned.
“What sort of business, I wonder?” Gelmir snickered.
“Our business is our own,” Celegorm answered curtly.
“Kinslayers should not be welcome here.”
“Who is the child?” Celegorm asked.
“This is Beren son of Barahir, heir of the Edain.”
Celegorm stooped down so that his eyes were level with Beren's. He studied the boy, sizing him up. Beren sized Celegorm up in turn. He did not like him, but Celegorm smiled.
“So, you want to be a hero, boy?” he asked, and Beren, child though he was, could sense the mockery in his voice.
“I will be,” he answered boldly. “My father is a hero, isn't he?”
“I do not create titles, little Master.”
“No one has called me little since I was four years old.”
“Lord Celegorm,” Arminas said coldly. “You must leave. There are children here, and it is almost time for their rest. What do you want from us here at the House of Play?”
“My brother and I came to see the child,” Celegorm answered, and Beren looked up in surprise. “After all, someday he may grow up and will be the Lord of the Edain, a king among Men.”
The two princes gave a courteous bow, which only made Gelmir scowl. Celegorm ruffled Beren’s hair and he and his brother left. Beren stared after them.
He asked the king, “Who are they?”
“They are two of the seven Sons of Fëanor. Celegorm and Curufin. You have never heard of them before?”
“I have heard some tales about them, but . . . ”
“The Sons of Fëanor have done terrible deeds. They shed the blood of their brothers, the Teleri, for their ships ages ago.”
Beren had first learned the great secret of the Noldoli immigration from Barahir himself. Fëanor and his sons had slain the mariners of the Teleri, and taken their ships out of Valinor. Of all these Noldoli, only Finarfin’s descendants had no hand in the kin slaying, Finarfin’s wife being herself Telerian. Finrod’s father had spoken against Fëanor, and in retribution, he and his people had been abandoned to make their way by foot into Middle-earth, following to avenge this injustice. By the time they had made their journey, Fëanor was slain, and his sons were quick to make peace, but Finarfin and his folk never forgave the evil done in Valinor.
“I know the tale. I understand more than you think. I remember only a little of their story, however. I was only a child when the midwives told me fireside stories.”
“You still are a child.”
“Not for long. I must grow up soon, and it is a grudgingly long wait.”
“But you must treasure your childhood while it lasts.”
“There is naught to treasure,” Beren said bitterly. “And the Sons of-“
”They are perilous, and they have little love for your kin, Beren.”
“Why do the Sons of Fëanor hate my people, and why do some Men hate Elves so?”
“Alas! I wonder if we were ever this innocent! I just hope that you remain the way you are, Beren. Perhaps I should not even try to explain to you what hate is and why Elves and Men are so different from each other. They say that we should never have met. Sometimes, I agree, but I think that it is better we learn from each other while we can. I know that the First and Second born cannot both dominate the earth forever. It shall be one or the other, and it seems to us that Men are weak but they often surprise us. They might win the battle for Middle-Earth, and who knows what shall happen to our land then?”
“My race only seems more numerous because most Elves are leaving over the Sea,” Beren said. “But where to I often wonder?”
“To the Undying Lands. That is our promised land, if we have the heart to leave our home of Beleriand.”
“I hope you never leave, milord.”
“I hope that I never shall have the need to,” Finrod smiled a sad smile. “But who knows? Evil is growing in our lands. It may be that I no longer have a choice, and the Undying Lands call to me in my dreams.”
“Why cannot we all live in the Undying Lands in peace? Why must we be forever severed?” Beren asked.
“You must wait until you are older to understand these matters.”
“Then I must wait for a lifetime!”
“Do not be discouraged, Beren! You shall learn soon enough, or too soon, I fear. But remember that there are other, fairer things in this world.”
“Like Nargothrond?”
“The world is a vast place, and when you take your father's lordship, it will be yours to explore. Nargothrond is but one fair domain in Middle-Earth. You may journey even farther than I know myself, though I have walked the wide earth since the Beginning.”
“How old are you?” Beren asked in amazement.
“Far older than you can imagine, and I am of one of the younger generations. Others awoke at the Waters of Awakening.”
“Tell me what it was like in the time of the Elves!” Beren said eagerly. “I want to hear of the days before Morgoth!”
“Perhaps another night. You are a son of Man. I have so little time to teach you everything!”
He noticed a gleam in his foster-son’s eyes.
“What is it?” his mentor asked.
“I like him not.”
“Who?”
“Celegorm.”
“Well, for that, I cannot blame you! Celegorm is the most ambitious Elf I have ever met, at least the most ambitious of the Sons of Fëanor. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. So declared Mandos. Pay no thought to him, Beren, for there are some that love him and others that call him Kinslayer behind closed doors. We must return to your studies.”
Beren went to his bed and found his thoughts wandering to Celegorm, despite himself. He was often in Nargothrond, and he would visit the children of the city occasionally. They all seemed to love him. But for Beren, the first impression lingered, and he could never understand why, but he did not trust Celegorm.
He would often sit in the king's halls and listen to tales about the Noldor and the Silmarils. One day Finrod told Beren of the Princess of the Sindar.
“Who is she?” Beren asked.
“She is the fairest maiden that has or ever shall walk upon this earth. She is Lúthien, daughter of King Thingol and Queen Melian. She is Half-Maia. She has raven black hair, and eyes bright and gray.”
“You have seen the woman?”
“The Elvin-maid. I was visiting Doriath and saw her sing there, for she is not renowned for her beauty alone. She is a dancer and singer. Thingol treasures his daughter more than any of his possessions.”
Beren then realized that the King had no heirs, nor did he even have a queen.
“My lord,” he asked. “Why do you not have children? You should wed this Princess.“
Finrod was so startled and amused by the boy’s boldness that he laughed outright, “Thingol and I have discussed it. It is a notion, nothing more, though I daresay she will make quite a bride to a particular person.”
“What shall happen when you die?”
“Then the throne I possess would be given to those of the eldest line. My brother Orodreth might be crowned, or Maedhros, eldest of the sons of Fëanor. I would rather Orodreth take office, but I must also take into account the people’s wishes.”
“But why do you not marry?”
“I already have children, Beren. The people are my sons and daughters. Besides, you are my foster son now. You are the closest thing to a true son that I will ever have. I am content with that.”
Beren hugged him and said, “I wonder… How old is this princess? Is she a girl still?”
“I fear you are an egg compared to her.”
“Could a Man and a She-Elf marry?”
Finrod became very silent and studied Beren carefully, “That I do not know. It has never been done before. Why would it? Such a union would be nothing but brief and tragic.”
******
Whenever Barahir returned from his services to visit his son in Nargothrond, he would often take him hunting with him. The maturing boy relished this time with his father, for he did not often see him, and he had not laid eyes upon his mother since he had departed from Dorthonion. His father gave him little news of their home and of Emeldir, saying that it was better that he focus instead upon his training and his studies. Neither would he tell him of his own deeds and the goings on in Beleriand. That left a bad taste in Beren’s mouth. Sometimes he despised his father all over again, as he had when he was a child. But when he was with him, he was able to forgive his father of most anything.
Finrod and the other Elves had taught him all the ways of Nature, including hunting lore. He enjoyed nothing more, and the boy seemed to have been born with a special gift in wood-lore. He had learned the way of animals, their strengths and weaknesses and behaviors. He could almost speak with the animals as some Elves could. He ranged the wild lands with his bow slung over his shoulder, a falcon or a hound following. He often brought a fattened boar for the King’s table and meat for his own. He tracked down predators that had become a nuisance.
He would become the greatest hunter known in Middle-Earth, and never would there be a hunter like him. His skill in hunting also gave him talent in battle. He learned to ride a horse like any rider of war, and the Enemy was his prey. He became a keen archer, as adept with his bow as he was with his sword. His eyes were sharp; sharper than any among the kin of Men because he had trained his eye to pick up insidious but critical details so that his skill and aim could never fail him.
Beren grew up swifter than many of his cousins. His dark hair had become long and was cut just above his shoulders. His eyes were stormy gray and boasted of wisdom beyond his years. They could be gentle and laughing one moment and hard and grim the next. With the discipline of a warrior and a hunter he had bridled his temper. He was a noble man and tall. He was also slender and born with the strength and hardihood of the Edain.
The boy was almost of age, near fourteen. He went out on the hunt, tracking five wolves. He returned that night and brought back five wolf skins. He gave one to Arminas, the second to Gelmir, a friend and mentor, the third to his father, the fourth to his closest friend, Gorlim, and he gave the last to King Finrod his foster-father, which he claimed had been the leader of the pack and had almost torn out his throat. It was at that time that Finrod proudly named him one of his brightest students of weapons and wood-lore and his academic studies were complete. He had little more to teach him. Barahir had sworn loyalty to the Noldor king and Beren was eager to follow in his father's footsteps. Beren was so resolute to be knighted that he stormed in to see the king and threw his sword down and kneeled as he had done many times before.
“My lord and king,” he said, “I am now ready to be knighted. Swear me to your service.”
“But Beren, you are still a child.”
“There is nothing more that I need learn!” he insisted. “Bring me one of your most skilled knights, and I shall defeat him.”
“I shall make you your father’s squire, and you shall be knighted by him when he feels it is time, though you still are quite young.”
Squiring his father, Beren at last was able to develop a real relationship with him. As his squire, he was required to ride everywhere with him. He geared him in armor, served him his meals and his cup, tended his fire and made his bed. He received his first taste of battle, hunting the occasional brigand of Orcs or wild men. After four years of the slavish labor, he was elevated from a squire to a knight. It was with great pride and joy that he received knighthood and vowed his undying service to Finrod. He was given a sword and shield and blessed by his father, his foster-father, and the King himself. He became one of Finrod's most honored vassals. He was a true knight.
Then the Battle of Sudden Flame began: The Battle of Bragollach, and the Enemy had seen many fruitful victories on their part. The Elves would not see their beloved Silmarils very soon. It was up to the Edain to stop evil from hemming their way into the Elf-kingdom, and Barahir asked the king’s leave to return to Dorthonion and ambush the Enemy in an attempt to cripple their forces. Beren stepped beside his father.
“We have sworn to your service, to protect you and the people of your realm, including our own, and to do your bidding in all things. One of those things is to eradicate the Enemy and purge the land of their malice. I intend to join my father and my kinsmen in this battle.”
Both the king and his father felt a strong dissent at his proposal.
“What is it that you see in battle that so attracts you?” Finrod demanded.
“It will be just like another day of hunting,” he said.
“It is an ugly business, Beren,” Finrod said. “It is not like the tales.”
Beren grimaced and looked away. “I am not a suckling babe,” he said. “I have seen ugly things before. I have had my share of battle as a squire.”
“That was not war. Those were skirmishes that were resolved quickly and easily. War is a different matter.”
“But-“
”Have you seen a man trying to retreat holding his intestines inside his belly, Beren?” Finrod was firm. “There are years of such sights as those. That is the true way of war.”
“And I am a warrior, same as my father, and I do not see you trying to convince him to remain.”
Finrod sighed, “You shall be serving under your father. You must obey him as you would obey my own orders.”
“Yes, lord. I understand.”
But King Finrod was torn with a dreadful foreboding, and he warned Barahir, saying that he did not fear the enemy in this matter, but for Barahir and his son. But Barahir was stubborn and did not heed Finrod's dark hints and riddles. Beren was anxious to go and meet the Enemy face-to-face in open battle, so the king had little choice but to let them leave. There was no way of dissuading the lord Barahir and son. So Beren and his father and the rest of the house of Bëor began their struggle against the Enemy.
Beren was content, save for one matter. He always dreamed a strange dream that would not leave him. He spoke of it to the Elves, asking for them to interpret it. If he could not, his father certainly would not be able to.
“This dream is a glimpse of your coming future,” Arminas answered gravely. “The Sea element means that you shall be traveling, and the darkness is a sign of major emotional upheaval. Not a very good omen for you, I am afraid. The young maiden at your side is a good omen. Perhaps she is your future love!”
Beren frowned, unappreciative of the jest.
“The moon covered means that perseverance will help you overcome your troubles. I do not know what all these strange elements mean. Perhaps it forebodes that there is hope through your ordeals after all.”
“How do you know these things?”
“The teacher asks the questions. Now I will tell you what I dreamed last night. I dreamed that a badger and a squirrel were quarreling. They both thought their tails were the shiniest and the grandest. Then came a sly fox from his burrow that had heard the whole thing.
‘That is nonsense,‘ said he. ‘Why, everyone knows that there is no finer creature under heaven with a tail as beautiful as mine.‘
“They continued quarreling, their brawl becoming more heated by the moment. They would have fought so until the Valar came again, if they had been permitted. But at last there came a large, silver coated wolf. He had been sleeping until the quarrel broke out and was very foul of mood. He was also hungry.
‘The goblins take you all,‘ said he. ‘You shall pay for wakening me. I shall just devour your fine tails and there shall be no quarreling, and I shall have no further need to search for my supper. Now hold still, you!‘
“The imprudent animals fled everywhere, but the wolf ran in pursuit. The fox got his beautiful, long, red-tipped tail caught in the brambles while he ran, and the wolf gulped it down. Then the badger found that his own shelter was flooded with water and he too fell victim! The squirrel was last to be caught. Being the fool that he was, the fool that had started this bloody game, saw a large nut and thought to take it to his hoard. He gathered the irresistible nut into his little claws and prepared to shimmy up the tree, thinking the wolf had missed him. As he was climbing, however, the wolf sprang from hiding and bit upon it. So the wolf consumed their tails, and they were so delicious that the wolf had a full belly and was very satisfied. He soon fell asleep again. The animals were licking their wounds and grieving for their beautiful tails when they heard him chuckle and say one thing before he slept:
‘Yes, I agree,‘ was what he said. ‘They are all grand tails indeed.‘
“That is all,” Arminas concluded. “It is a rather funny story, eh?”
“Outrageous is a better word,” Beren answered. “Let me interpret it. Let’s see . . . The badger is good for commerce, the fox is a rival, but since both were defeated, they may cancel each other. The squirrel running up a tree is trouble, but since he too was put to shame, that is not bad at all. The wolf is always a bad omen. Now I am very confused.”
“Do you want me to tell you the meaning of it?”
“This should be interesting.”
“There is no meaning,” Arminas answered.
“Would the moral: Never quarrel or take too much pride in your own self suit?”
“Perhaps. I just thought it was humorous,” Arminas said with a shrug. “I have tended to your sword. You shall in no doubt look after yourself. Now farewell, hero.”
The Elf handed him his sword and dug out a casket of wine.
“Where did that come from?” Beren cried. “You hypocrite! I thought you never drank unless it was a special occasion!”
“Being alive after all my years of wandering is special enough. I trust that your going away is worth a drink also. There is nothing wrong with a little hypocrisy,” Arminas answered grinning. “Let us drink to that!”
Beren drank a little. It was Elf-wine, much stronger than he was used to. He drank and then, the wine going to his head, fell asleep. He had that dream again. In the dream, he saw the Sea, something he had not seen in all his life. But it was not the Sea that filled his heart with sorrow and with joy. Beside him was an Elvin-girl; the most beautiful he had ever dreamed of or ever imagined. He made toward her, and the Sea stirred and darkness veiled the moon. The Elvin-woman seemed afraid and turned as though to flee.
“No! Do not run! Do not be afraid of me!” Beren cried.
“I am not afraid,” she paused.
“What is your name?”
“I am Tinúviel,” she answered.
She spoke no other word to him, and then she turned and fled from him.