Chapter 22: The Parting Beyond Worlds

Twenty-Two
The Parting Beyond Worlds

Lúthien had sat against the trunk of Hirilorn for a long while, her head bowed low. Queen Melian was sitting beside her. She knew her daughter was at the brink of tears. She had been fighting them for a long while.
“He will come back with the Silmaril and all will be well. We are to be married,” she often repeated to herself, but Melian was sure that she did not believe it at all.
They both knew that something dreadful had happened. Huan was surely dead, and they had no way of knowing if Thingol or Beren was safe and unharmed. Melian, being the wisest of her own kin, had nothing to say to her daughter. No words could comfort Lúthien, let alone stall her tears. She had begun twirling the ring of Barahir on her finger.
Even though it was at a time of night, there were no stars in the sky. The moon was in cloud, and even the wind seemed to have died. Everything was in silence. The mother and her daughter waited.
At last, the light of torches appeared through the mist. Lúthien saw her father and Mablung and Beleg. They were carrying two bodies. The first was the corpse of Huan, the second was the wounded and now dying Beren, and Lúthien moaned.
“Alas! This is just as I feared,” she said bitterly to herself. Melian stood up, a grave look on her face, but Lúthien did not stand. Her eyes were cast to the ground, the tears flowing from her eyes like water flowing from a river. Lúthien could not find the strength to rise, so she remained sitting. She even let herself fall forward, face down in the grass, and she lay there without a sound. This pained Melian greatly.
“Come, Lúthien,” she said as gently and soothingly as she could. “I am sure that Beren wishes to see you.”
“What is the use?” she was strangely cold. “Why should I be the last thing he has to see? Why should I not let him go in peace? Why should I even glance at him when I know it will be the last I ever have of him? Why should I even have to hear his name? Why should I live and he die? Why did this happen? Why did the Valar decide to take him now of all times? Did we not pray hard enough that we would at last be married? Is this some horrible punishment for us both? Is it because of our love? Did the Valar choose to take him now after the Quest is at last ended as a cruel joke? Should we have even attempted the Quest? Would we have been able to marry then? Would we have been able to love each other then in the wilderness? Could we have lived with it? Why? What if? How? Why?”
“Such questions I cannot answer, Lúthien. I just know that Beren's last comfort before he dies would be to see you. After all, he is dying so that he could at last earn the right for your love.”
“You lived among the Valar, did you not, mother? Do you understand their ways at all? Can you explain to me why they did this? Why must I live now? Why should Beren die? Will we truly see each other again?”
“Your questions: I cannot answer them,” Melian repeated. “Although I am a Maia, we live by Ilúvatar's will, and we do not know for certain ourselves why Ilúvatar does things like this. But if you seek the answer, it shall be given to you in time. Listen! Beren calls for you now! Will you let him die longing for you?”
“Aye Elbereth!”
Melian took Lúthien by the arm and helped her to her feet. The maiden stumbled, but her mother again helped her. Then she pushed her forward gently.
“Go to Beren!” Lúthien almost stumbled for a second time, but she maintained her balance. Then she began walking slowly towards the hunters. She stopped in front of her father.
“What happened?”
“Lúthien...” Thingol trailed off.
“What happened?!”
“We have retrieved the Silmaril. Beren was sorely wounded, and Huan of Valinor died killing Carchoroth,” Mablung answered immediately.
“So the Warg is dead?”
“Yes. Carchoroth was the mightiest, but he walks this earth no more.”
“Good,” Lúthien said grimly. “Or else I would have killed him myself. How was Beren wounded?”
“Carchoroth bit him,” Beleg told her as Thingol turned his back to her, for he had begun to weep. “His fangs went through his heart. We did all we could for him but...”
Lúthien had stopped listening. She was staring down upon Huan's body. She thought of all the times he had helped her and Beren when no one else would. She had been alone and friendless, and Huan had been there for her. She had set no spells or enchantments upon him, only the sound of her voice and her tears had persuaded him to aid her, and that was all. She stroked the hound and placed a silver collar about his neck. She had prepared it for him long ago.
Upon the collar were two names written in Quenya:

*Beren*
And
*Tinúviel*

Lúthien kissed the hound’s muzzle, and then she stooped down and wrapped her arms around Beren, whose eyes were closed and lay quite still. He was mangled and bloody, but she cared not.
“Beren?” she called his name with sorrow. “C-can you hear me?”
“I would recognize your voice anywhere, Tinúviel,” Beren answered, opening his eyes and managing a weak smile. “Tinúviel, I am glad you are here. I know how painful this must be for you.”
“Painful for me?” she looked at his wounds and lost all hope. “I knew this would happen! I just knew I should have followed you!”
She burst into fresh tears.
“Please, Tinúviel, do not weep. Do not cry, Nightingale.”
“Do not cry?”
“Show her the Silmaril.”
Thingol handed the Silmaril to Mablung, and he handed it to her, but she did not look at it. Her eyes were locked on Beren's, and he hers.
“You are dying,” Lúthien sobbed. “We never had the chance to marry.”
“I am mortal. I would have wiltered and died soon enough.”
“But if you die, I die with you!” Lúthien cried. “Do you not remember my words? Wherever you go, I will follow! Do not go where I cannot follow!
“No, my little bird. You are needed here, and I cannot bring you death. I would never bring you death even if you begged me.”
A little breath escaped her, and loosening one of their joined hands, she raised it, brushing a butterfly-light touch across his cheek. “Beren,” she said, but she could have said ‘beloved’, for the tone was that intimate. He found he could smile even as he wished to weep. Then he gasped, the anguish and the pain of death were upon him.
“No, Beren, please!” Lúthien said wildly. “Do not leave! You can fight it, if you hold on only a little longer! You could-“
”I cannot fight death.”
“But Beren-“
She cut herself off as she sensed Beren take his last breath. He was saying farewell.
“Wait for me, Beren,” she said, kissing him one last time. “Wait for me. You cannot leave me behind.”
As soon as she had made her request and kissed him, Beren's spirit left his body, and he was dead.
******
Lúthien stared at him for a long while. The tears on her cheeks became cold as she watched the color blanch from his face. Her father put his hand on her shoulder, and at last she rose to her feet. She turned her back on her parents and Mablung and Beleg and walked towards Hirilorn with her arms folded across her breast. Then she stopped and held the Silmaril aloft in her hand. Her shoulders drooped.
As she held the Silmaril, she thought of all the blood that had been shed to recapture it. The blood of Huan of Valinor was stained upon it, the most loyal friend that she and Beren had ever had. The blood of Beren too was upon it, and the blood of Finrod, and the blood of all the faithful Elves that had followed Finrod and Beren to Sauron's tower. And now, her own blood was upon it, for she knew that her spirit was dead and gone forever now. Nothing could revive it.
Those were too many lives. There was too much blood upon the Silmaril. It no longer looked beautiful to her, nor was it a symbol of their love. It was not a symbol of holiness either. It was a symbol of evil now.
Suddenly, Lúthien let out an anguished scream that startled the others. She cast the Silmaril from her and fell on her knees, weeping openly. Her tears fell upon the earth, and flowers sprang into bloom. It seemed that Yavanna herself was trying to comfort her in her hour of need.
“Lúthien,” Melian stepped towards her. Never had she known such helplessness. How could she comfort her? She herself was astonished that Beren was dead, even though she had foreseen it. When he returned to Doriath she had almost convinced herself that he had become too great to be cast down in this way. Perhaps she had been wrong and Lúthien and Beren would suffer no more. This was a rude awakening and she wished she had been wrong.
Her daughter refused comfort, even from her mother. There were times she had wanted nothing more. Her mother could calm her even when Thingol could not when she was a child. Melian always seemed to have answers to her questions and assuaged her fears and worries. She could find reason in everything. But there was no reason in this. There was no justice. And all she wanted at the moment was to be alone. Alone. It seemed so terrible but she was too ashamed to remain rooted to this spot beside Beren’s corpse. The shell that had once been her lover. And the looks of compassion were too much. The words of comfort were well intentioned she knew but seemed as insults. She ran.
“Lúthien! Lúthien, come back! Please stop! Come back!” Thingol cried.
Melian knew that their pursuit was futile. She stopped her husband.
“Let her go,” she said. “She must be allowed some time to mourn!”
“But what might she do in her grief?” Thingol bellowed. “If she could fly into Angband for Beren, what might she do now to oppose his death?”
“Let her alone!”
Thingol nodded at last and called to Mablung and Beleg.
“Watch the gates. Let her in if she comes. If not...” he turned away.
Lúthien's wails of agony and bitter weeping was heard throughout Doriath. Always she called for Beren. Thingol was heartbroken for his daughter, but no one dared to come near her yet. She was suffering a grief unmatched by any other, and her rage also was great and terrible to be seen. When she did return home several days later, she was weak and weeping even as the servants helped her inside. She came to the gates, her clothes torn so that she looked very rugged. Mablung and Beleg sprang from their posts.
“Lúthien, Lúthien,” they cried, swallowing her into embrace.
She clung to them, weeping like a child.
“My lady, we have all been worried.”
Lúthien did not say a word.
“Lúthien, please stop crying.”
“Merciful Manwë!” Beleg gasped. “She is bleeding!”
“What did you do? Drag yourself through hot coils and broken glass?!”
“Can she walk?”
“She will not.”
“Hi!” Mablung shouted to the soldiers. “Fetch the Princess a blanket!”
Beleg gathered Lúthien into his arms.
“You are shivering!”
“Her lips are blue,” Mablung murmured and felt her forehead. “She’s taken ill! Fetch the healers at once!”
Beleg took off his cloak and wrapped her in it and kissed her, but she still trembled violently. The healers took her and found that Lúthien had fallen ill with a fever. Illness was almost unheard of among the Eldar, but they were not immune in cases of extreme emotional stress. The illness came from within.
Thingol and Melian burst in to see her.
“She is in emotional rapture,” Laisie said. “If this goes on much longer, she may die of grief!”
“I will not let that be!” Thingol insisted.
“And could you console her?”
Thingol sat by Lúthien’s bedside. He tried to give her water, but she spit it out. She was falling in and out of fever dreams. She moaned for Beren, and then she might suddenly scream. Thingol did not know what she might have seen in Angband. Lúthien had never told him, saying only what she had to and that what she had seen in the pits was too horrible. She was reliving her torment there, and she writhed in her sleep.
“For the love of Ilúvatar, heal her Melian!” Thingol commanded his queen.
“I cannot heal her griefs!”
“How can you watch our daughter suffer so? How can you let her slowly die before you?”
Then Melian wept, and no one had ever seen the Queen weep. She had never before shed a tear.
When Lúthien awoke, Laisie was tending to her.
“Are you chilled?” she asked.
Lúthien turned onto her side and said nothing.
“You are very ill.”
Lúthien did nothing but stare at the chamber wall.
“You are not as alone as you think, Fairest One,” Laisie said.
Laisie nursed her back to health, physical health at least, and cleaned her up as though she were a little Elvin-child again. So far, Lúthien had not spoken a word to anyone. The light in her eyes was fading, for the darkness had fallen upon her at last, as it had briefly the first time she came upon Beren in the pits of Sauron and thought him dead. Her eyes now were haunting and grim. Lúthien, in fact, did not display a single act of emotion until she found that the Elves had taken Beren’s body and were building a funeral pyre for him. She saw them stack the wood and then place his body upon it. When they lit a torch, she suddenly let out a cry of rage and snatched it from them.
“No!” she cried. “Do not burn the body! You burn this body, and may you burn in Hell!”
Thingol and Melian were happy to hear Lúthien speak, even if all she did was utter curses. She had not spoken for so long, but she still remained grim and cold.
“Then do you want us to bury the body?” Thingol asked after many other questions, of which Lúthien made no response to.
“No.”
“Should we make a funeral boat and cast it out to sea?”
“No.”
“Should we raise a cairn over him as he did for his father?”
“No.”
“What would Beren have wanted?”
“He would have probably wanted it to burn,” Lúthien admitted.
“Then why not burn it?”
“Because I will not let you. Build him a tomb near Esgalduin and leave his body there, in one piece.”
Melian and Thingol were surprised by the demand. Never before had a Man been laid to rest on the soil of the Elves. Thingol asked why she wanted this done, but Lúthien did not speak again.
Beren did earn his place,” Melian told him. “None among Men or Elves has done such a great deed.”
“Perhaps you are right,” Thingol answered and sighed. “All right. Lay his body in the tomb.”
******
Lúthien was sitting upon her bed, thinking, of course, about Beren. Her head was bowed, and she had set the ring of Finrod on its chain and was wearing it around her neck as she had done before. She did not fight tears any longer. They came all too easily for her during these days. They streamed down her cheeks. Each day passed by for her, and the pain seemed to redouble each moment.
Whenever she dreamed, she dreamed of him. Suddenly the room would become cold. She would hear a faint echo, lamenting off the walls. She looked up. She had distinctly heard Beren's voice, but he was gone. He had been killed by Carchoroth. But then she heard that same voice again, and her own was also heard, as if from a half-remembered dream. Lúthien heard voices from her child-hood, and she also guessed she heard moments in Beren's also.
The song that Beren had sang thundered off the walls, and it brought pain all the more to her heart.
“Farewell sweet earth and northern sky,
for ever blest, since here did lie
and here with lissome limbs did run
beneath the Moon, beneath the Sun,
Lúthien Tinúviel
more fair than mortal tongue can tell.
Though all to ruin fell the world
and were dissolved and backward hurled
unmade into the old abyss,
yet were its making good for this
the dusk the dawn, the earth, the sea
that Lúthien for a time should be.”

The echoes soon became fainter and stopped. Lúthien had fallen on her knees, clutching the door handle so hard in anguish that her hands were torn.
“Beren?” she called hopefully. “Is that you?”
“I will wait for you, Lúthien. I shall wait for all eternity if I have to.”
“Beren? Can you come back? Where are you? Have you come for me? Please tell me that is why you are here!”
“I will wait for you.”
Lúthien felt a brush upon her cheek. It was ice cold, but she knew it was Beren's touch. When the cold left from her cheek, she called for Beren, but then the draft of cold air left the room.
“Wait, Beren!” she cried. “Stay with me!”
“I will always stay with you. I love you, and I will wait with you.”
The dreams made Lúthien began to wonder if it were possible to communicate with Beren despite the fact that he was dead or to will herself to leave her body. She learned that there was a way to do so. She asked Melian about it, and the queen was very reluctant to answer. Lúthien pressed her mother until at last she yielded and answered her questions.
“The fate of the Eldar is this: The Eldar see themselves as two different parts, the Fëa and the Hroa. The two parts are not bound to each other, but without the Hroa, the Fëa is powerless, and with no spirit, the body is dead and will soon dissolve. The life span of the Eldar is by nature the same as that of the world. Thus the elvish spirit tend to “consume” the body, until all that is left of it is a vague shape and it is indeed indestructible. But the Fëa will leave the body. Then the spirit will be summoned to Mandos, and it may go there of its own free will. Most spirits do this, but those who have been influenced by Melkor and are corrupt often dread the punishment they will receive in Mandos and stay in Middle-earth, trying to take over some other body that already contains a spirit. Those who follow the summons may, if they wish, be incarnated in a newborn body, identical to the previous. The others stay in Mandos’ Halls until the end of the world. All spirits must wait in Mandos’ Halls for a time; how long depends on the individual. If the spirit has done evil in its previous life it must often wait longer. Sometimes it stays for good. There are few cases where an Elf has been reincarnated more than once. The reason for this is unknown. But Beren, you must remember, is not of the Eldar.”
“But I am of the Eldar and Half-Maia. What is to become of me?”
“You are unique, my child,” Melian answered. “I have often wondered if you would be allowed a certain fate of your own choosing.”
“And what is the fate of Man?”
“Not even Manwë and Varda claim to know their fate.”
“And is it not true that the Fëa can leave the Hroa at the will of the individual?”
“Yes.”
“So I could travel to the very halls of Mandos?”
“Absolutely not!” Melian cried. “You could be cut off from Middle-Earth forever and become as good as dead yourself! This is a very perilous thing. Do you not understand this, Lúthien?”
“Beren and I were very good about taking risks, Mother.”
Melian held up a hand to silence Lúthien, then she softened and kissed her daughter's brow.
“You are my daughter, Lúthien. I know that you loved Beren, and I know that your tale has not ended at all. I do not want to lose my only child. And your father would also be grieved if you were to be cut off from us forever. Do you no longer care for us?”
“I do care for you. But is that reason for me to linger? I have nothing left, Mother, but this mere hope of seeing Beren one last time. He has not left me, even in death. His echo is here.”
“His spirit, you mean?”
Lúthien opened her mouth in surprise, and her mother smiled.
“I am a Maia, am I not? I have had many experiences with deceased spirits and apparitions, Lúthien. Sometimes when Men die they do not go beyond the Sundering Sea to their true fate. I am not sure if Beren is one of those wandering spirits, but if you sense him, it may well be.“
“All the more reason to go to the Halls of Mandos. Daeron is gone. He plays his songs no more. Huan is dead. The sound of his voice shall be heard no more. Beren was murdered. He can hold me no more. Daeron and Huan were my friends. I shall never see them again. I did not have to lose my soon-to-be-husband as well. Ilúvatar took more than what was necessary.”
“You must know that Beren was not alone when he said he loved you.”
“I do, Mother,” Lúthien answered. “But I cannot live with this darkness. I cannot live with Beren's memory only.”
“Lúthien, you must be strong.”
“I am tired of being strong, Mother,” Lúthien sounded genuinely weary.
“You must not despair like this. Beren’s kin was slaughtered, and still, he lived to see you.”
“There is nothing left of my spirit in this shell of gloom and lament. If I were to die today, it would not be sudden or unexpected. Indeed, it would not even be untimely.”
“Lúthien, you still have much to live for. You are immortal. You are most beloved of the Elves, and you are also my daughter.”
“It is part of my doom, perhaps, to die, Mother; the same as Beren's.”
“Your doom has not yet been appointed, Lúthien,” Melian was frightened and desperate to keep her daughter. “You will live on and soon forget about Beren. I am sure you can find a husband among your own kin.”
“You are not comforting me, Mother. I will never, no never forget Beren. I long for death because he is dead. He is dead. . . Yet I live on. Must I live out eternity while he is dead?”
“You would take your own life-“
”No. I do not have to. My will is lost, Mother. I have no tears left to shed, or I would have soon flooded all the world with my grief.”
“If you do indeed die, Lúthien, know that a part of me shall die also.”
“And so shall hope, Mother?
“What do you mean?”
“Beren and I set out on our quest in vain. Perhaps life itself is vain.”
“Now, Lúthien, you are beginning to speak madness.”
“Nay, Mother. It is only words of woe. Tell my Father that I love him. I know what I must do, and I cannot delay the moment any longer.”
She did not notice the slow passing of twelve days, nor those who came also to grieve. She merely wandered, in dreams, through the days of her life with Beren, wondrous and all too short. Remembering their meeting, their declaration of love, of the things that had been deprived of them, their marriage, and their children. Thinking nothing of herself, but only of he who had not yet truly left her.
Lúthien was dying.
Speaking to no one, seeing nothing but bleak despair around her, and taking nothing, she fled the memories the Caves held and rode away. She rode to Esgalduin, the heart of Neldoreth. She dismounted her horse, and when he remained at her side, gnawing at the grass, she stroked him and removed the golden sash about his throat that showed her ownership of him. It was Iavas’ only material possession, and he wanted it back. Saying farewell to him was hard, she could not imagine how difficult it would have been to say goodbye to those in Menegroth.
“You no longer have a Mistress,” Lúthien told him. “Return to the stable boy, or roam as you will. You were my Father’s gift to me, and you were for a time my only friend. Leave me here, and when you return to the Thousand Caves, they will know what has become of me. Farewell.”
Here she had pledged to her love, here she had once dreamed of the day they would be together, and here she would remain till death took her. Laying herself on the hill, she awaited her passing.
When the sun rose the next day, the king and queen sought for her themselves. Mablung and Beleg followed after.
“She is nowhere in the Caves,” Melian told Thingol. “Search for her somewhere else. Think: What is the dearest place to Lúthien? Would it be in the Caves, or perhaps on the hill of Esgalduin where she was born, and where she met Beren, and where Beren ended his Quest?”
“Then we must hurry to Esgalduin!”
The king and queen climbed up the hill and found Lúthien in Beren s tomb.
“Lúthien!” Thingol ran to her.
She turned her head and looked at him and tried to speak, it seemed. Thingol gathered her in his arms, and he looked into her eyes, but her eyes had changed. They were dead and cold, and Thingol wept.
Lúthien laid her head on his chest. “Ada,” she said, and then she gasped, and she closed her eyes, a smile forming upon her lips.
“Lúthien? Lúthien?” Thingol shook her.
“Aye Elbereth!” Melian cried. “She is dead!”
“No! She cannot be dead! Lúthien?”
Lúthien could not answer, and Thingol let out an anguished cry and gave her to Melian.
“Bring her back, Melian!” he ordered. “Bring her back! If you have the power, bring her back!”
“I have no such power!” Melian answered.
“I command you as your husband and your king to bring her back! What is your power for if you cannot even save your own daughter?”
“She is dead, Thingol! I cannot save her. It is not my lot!” Melian sobbed. “I cannot save her! I cannot save her!”
******
Many Elves and Men mourned Lúthien’s death. The king and queen were not willing to bury her body either. They laid her body beside Beren's, and amazingly, their bodies seemed to be untouched by time. The two seemed merely asleep rather than dead. Melian took this as an encouraging sign, but Thingol mourned bitterly over his daughter's body for many days. They say that even Celegorm and Curufin came secretly to bid farewell to Lúthien.
Celegorm was not welcomed warmly, and they remained in Doriath briefly and in secret so that they would not rouse the king into wrath. Mablung and Beleg stood on the parapet when a little Elvin-boy came running towards them.
“Mablung, my lord!”
“What is it, little Master?”
“There are two foreigners at the borders. They have begged for passage into Doriath.”
“Ask the wardens who they are.”
The boy rushed back, straining his little legs. His child’s face was troubled.
“They have proclaimed that they are indeed Celegorm and Curufin, high princes of the Noldor. They came here seeking truth of the rumors that they have heard during these dark times.”
“Why are they here?”
The boy looked even more distressed, but he said slowly, “They are here. . .to see the Princess.”
Mablung bowed his head, and the boy burst into tears.
“Now you can go home,” Mablung said. “Go on!”
He gestured to Beleg and slung his quiver over his shoulder. They stood upon the parapet and looked down to see the princes. They were not clothed in their usual array of mail. They wore plain tunics, and they seemed unarmed. They had cast away their proud garments for what reason Mablung could not guess nor did he care.
“What do you want?” he asked with suspicion and disdain. “Why do you come here to trouble our kingdom when all the realm of Doriath is in mourning?”
“We seek truth,” Curufin answered. “We have been terribly vexed by the tidings we have heard.”
“So you undertook this journey to Doriath when you of all people are most unwelcome? And for what purpose? To knock on the door and beg for news?”
The brothers were silent, and then Celegorm spoke in a frail voice.
“Lúthien,” he said. “I come seeking Lúthien.”
“Seek not in this world, my friend,” Mablung answered curtly.
But Celegorm did not understand the meaning beyond the words and pressed further, “I must see her. I must know.”
“What is there to know?”
“We are losing patience!” Curufin burst.
Celegorm exerted all his power and said, “Please. Please have pity on us.”
“For what?” Mablung demanded. “For what has victimized you? Should we give you pity for breaking your oath to your king and for stealing another king’s daughter? Nay, I think not. You have made yourselves enemies of your own people. Should we pity you that you have only received part of the Valar’s punishment?”
“Have you no compassion for my grievance?” Celegorm demanded. “Let me see her! That is all I ask! It is only my brother and I and a few servants.”
Messengers were sent into Menegroth on their behalf. It was Melian the queen that received them and went to answer. Thingol was in no state to govern, and Melian could barely take on her duties herself. She saw the brothers and stayed Mablung from making a harsh rejection. They would not see Menegroth and would be blindfolded while passing through the Girdle so no secrets would be given away. With a silent command, Mablung and Beleg backed off from the parapet and stowed away, speaking of the brothers with bitterness.
Melian stood upon the parapet now, and she looked both terrible and beautiful. She stared at Celegorm with cold fury, but then she softened.
“Do you truly want what you ask of us?” she asked. “Do you want to know the truth?”
“Yes!” he all but hissed the word.
“You say that so quickly. But do you? Which answer would be worse for you, Celegorm? To know that Beren has wed her and that they live happily or to know that Lúthien may be suffering now?”
Celegorm paused, then said, “I-I do not know.”
Melian turned. “Open the gates and lead them to my daughter!”
“Thank you for your benevolence, lady...”
She had vanished, and a servant came and led them to Neldoreth. He spoke not a word to them and was careful not to look at them. They led them to the tombs and stopped before the door.
“Where is she?” Celegorm demanded. “Where is she?”
“She is in here. Don’t get any bright ideas about stowing away with her body,” he answered darkly.
Celegorm went through the door. The incense of flowers hovered in the air, and there was Lúthien upon the altar, a silk white cloth drawn over her. Elanor and niphredil were all about her. She was not alone. Beside her was Beren’s body, also covered and anointed.
The queen sat upon a stone bench.
“Welcome to Beren and Lúthien’s resting place,” Melian said. “You came to see her. I have allowed you this much. You shall be allowed an hour, but no longer.”
“Is she...” Celegorm rested his hand upon the altar. “Dead?”
“I do not know what you mean by that.”
Celegorm was staring at Lúthien, and the servant stepped forward and placed a flower upon the altar with the others as tribute. He was silently weeping.
“But how did this happen?” Celegorm asked.
“When Beren her lover was killed by Carchoroth, she pined for him.”
Celegorm cast a glance at Beren’s carcass and said bitterly, “Good. He did this to her.”
The servant, who had said nothing, suddenly lost control. “Hold your tongue!” he shouted. “Beren was the greatest among Men or Elves!”
He stormed away, and Celegorm was taken aback. It was known that the Sindar disliked Men and most had muttered under their breath that Beren was to blame for Lúthien’s suffering before the lovers had returned to Doriath from Angband. Now it seemed they had come to see him in a new light. He was a damnable hero here now as he was in Nargothrond.
Celegorm pulled back the white veil over Lúthien’s face and strained to hear breathing, a heartbeat, any flutter of life, but there was none.
Lúthien Tinúviel, most beloved upon Middle-Earth was dead.
And yet she might have lived and been my princess, my bride, my beloved for all time.
Curufin watched his brother with growing alarm. He had had little feelings for Lúthien, but Celegorm had. Celegorm took a starflower in his hands and suddenly tore it to pieces. He put a hand to his mouth. He was weeping, and Curufin did not dare try to comfort him. He knew his brother would only push him away. He left him alone with her, and Celegorm held her cold hand for a long while. Then Queen Melian entered with Curufin.
“Prince Celegorm,” she said. “Thingol is in anguish. He must not be separated from his daughter for very long and I fear what he may do if he knows that you are here.”
“Allow me one moment, lady.”
He leaned down and kissed Lúthien’s mouth and drew the veil over her face again.
“I never loved as I loved you,” he whispered to her.
Melian saw the tears in his eyes and said as he was about to leave, “Does the truth satisfy you? Have you what you came for? You have been given the truth.”
Celegorm did not reply.
“The sooner you leave, the better will it please me.”
Celegorm turned to leave but Curufin stopped him. He turned boldly to Melian and asked in a sardonic voice, “Your highness, I am so sorry for your loss. To think that they died this way. Beren slain by a wolf and Lúthien heartbroken. The wolf is dead is it not?”
“Carchoroth is slain,” Melian’s eyes narrowed.
“That is a comfort, I suppose. And could you be so kind as to inform us what became of our father’s Silmaril?”
She paused, her eyes became as stone and a shadow passed over her face. She became frightened and angry.
“The Silmaril need not concern you,” she struggled to restrain herself. “All you need know is that Beren and Lúthien succeeded in their quest but paid with their lives. The Silmaril was bought with a high price. That price is still being paid and taxing our realm. Must you tax us further?
“It was bought but not from us, the rightful owners. What has become of the Silmaril? Did you lock it in your treasure vault or does Thingol wear it now?”
“I regret allowing you here now. Compassion moved me to do it and foolishness perhaps. I must be going mad with grief as my daughter did and as my husband is now. How dare you mention the cursed jewel within the walls of Beren’s and my daughter’s tomb? Were it not for it, they would be alive!”
“And so they will rot and become fodder for worms and flies. What do I care? What became of the Silmaril?” Curufin repeated relentlessly.
“Curufin, now is not the time!” Celegorm thundered, but he would not be stopped.
“You know that we alone have a claim to it. If anything you should blame Thingol for sending the man to burgle what was never his!”
“Your hour is up! I must ask that you leave Doriath for good! You are not welcome here.”
“We shall be going,” Celegorm spoke up, gripping his brother’s arm. “But let it be known that you had this chance to return the Silmaril to us. We will give your another chance when you have come to your senses. Enough blood has been shed on account of this particular Silmaril. Do not force our hands in this matter. I assure you the next time that you refuse, the Sons of Fëanor must act for the sake of our oath.”
“Oaths as binding and deadly as yours should never have been taken so lightly. Tell me, Celegorm: If you had come upon Beren and Lúthien with the Silmaril, would you have slain them both? Neither would have ever surrendered it to you and they would have gladly sacrificed themselves for each other. For I have heard of Curufin’s attempt upon my daughter,” she gave him a piercing glance. “And for that I will never forgive him. But what of you, Celegorm, you who claims to have loved her?”
He cast one last glance at Lúthien and hesitated. In the end he did not answer. He led his brother away. Melian felt relief once she knew they had passed out of sight of Doriath. The brothers had left Doriath in peace this time. But their threat lingered in her mind and she was more troubled than ever. She had lost her daughter and had nothing but a jewel that neither she nor Thingol could bring themselves to cast away. Lúthien and Beren had died for it. It would be an insult to them not to keep it as their burden. But she knew a seed had been sewn here. The Sons of Fëanor would never rest. With Lúthien gone Thingol had become a pitiful thing, and Melian wondered how much longer their realm could bear this storm.