Chapter 4: Beren's Wanderings and Findings

Four
Beren’s Wanderings And Findings

After Beren had killed the Orc, he wandered far from Dorthonion, forsaking it at last, pursuing all creatures that were under the command of Morgoth. He became a fierce enemy of Orcs, and they soon fled at the mention of his name in fear for their skins. They did not hunt for him, but he hunted them, and when he found them, he could not be recognized as human. He would play with them, make them beg for mercy; grovel piteously upon the ground and kiss the dirt.
“My kinsmen might have done the same,” he would tell them, and demand that they offer him ransom. “They would have offered anything for their lives.”
The Orcs usually gave in, and those who cursed him as the alternative had their tongues simply cut out and left to die. The less thickheaded offered Beren wealth or slaves among many things, and Beren would take what they offered. He set the slaves free and gave them the wealth and sent the Orc upon their miserable way. Then he would find them the next day, stalk them, frighten them, and at last, take them before they could truly escape.
“This is the same mercy you showed your victims. Justice has come upon you times ten thousand! No more mockery and no more blood shall come forth from you again.”
It was barbaric, of course, but Beren took great pleasure in it. It was the only pleasure he had now. Despite the blood spilling of so many Orcs, the murderers of his kin, Beren soon realized that it could not give him peace. He greatly mourned over the loss of his father, his cousins, and Gorlim and Hathaldir most of all, and leaving the site of their graves was a great struggle for him. Then Beren would have made for Nargothrond; the land that he had once called home as a boy, but he was often delayed by the difficult passes. He could not fight the invisible forces of Nature, for she sent snow to drive him back. He lost himself in the mountains where the Enemy pursued him, and he had to turn away.
Beren had slipped from death's grasp many times afterward, for he soon became a nuisance to Morgoth. None of the greatest of his Orc armies had courage or skill enough to catch him, so he sent Men, Wolves, and even Elves that he had swayed to his service to find him and set countless traps for him. Indeed, Morgoth put a bounty on his head that was as great as the Elvin-king Finrod's, and Beren wore this as a badge of honor. He disposed of all these servants, and Morgoth became enraged that a mortal could weave its way through his traps.
Beren also went searching for his mother and the other wives and children. He had not forgotten her, and he sought for her companionship. He was passing into all lands near that region, searching for any sign or rumor of the dearly departed, but he never found them. There were dark rumors that they were dead. But there was always one man that insisted that all was well. The Lady and the others of the Edain were safe with the house of Hador.
Eagerly, he pursued the rumors, which led him to the land of Dor-lomin. There they received him with joy, for he was a king among them, and they had thought him dead.
“Hail the lord of the Edain!” they called on high.
“Thank you, cousins,” he said. “But, please, take me to my people.”
Two women stood up in the crowd. One’s hair shone like gold, and the other, the silent, fierce one, had hair dark as ebony.
“We are here,” said the dark one.
Beren embraced them both.
“This is Morwen,” said the golden-haired one, “and I am Rian. We are the daughters of Belegund and Baragund. Do you have news of our fathers?”
“Yes, of course, but that must wait. Where are the others? The women, and the children? What of my mother the Lady Emeldir?”
Morwen hesitated, and Rian said nothing. Then Morwen told him that they were the chief of the survivors of the women and children that Barahir had sent away; that they had been separated in a snowstorm crossing the mountains and Orcs had found them. Beren questioned them deeply concerning his mother.
Morwen, who had answered all of his questions as forthrightly as she could, answered, “I saw her fall, lord.”
Beren slowly rose from his chair. “Alas! She is dead then?”
“Yes, my lord. She urged us all on bravely, but at the last, her strength failed. The Orcs bound us and would have dragged us off to Angband. Emeldir fought the Orcs, for she was a shield-maiden for much of her life. She was a noble warrior like her husband. I spoke to her before she died.”
“What were her last words?”
“I do not know if my husband or my son live, but I will not be made a thrall nor shall I abandon my kinsmen to torment and death. I too am of the house of Bëor, and we shall fight rather than be thralls to Morgoth or slaves to fear. With those words, she took up a sword. But despite her noble speech, she was defeated, and the Orcs cast her over the side of the mountain.”
“How did you escape?”
“It was Húrin of the house of Hador that rescued us all and brought us here. His men had been tracking these Orcs off the premises. The Orcs knew they were being pursued, and once the men were caught sight of, they decided they could not bring any of the Edain’s women and children to be brought with malice and revenge to the pits. They had to kill us all quickly. Of all the captives, the Orcs began slaughtering the women first. They stood us all in a line, and an Orc slashed one neck and then another. Blood was upon the snow. They were about to slash my throat when the Orc was killed by Húrin’s arrows.”
“But surely, you cannot be the only ones!”
Morwen was silent.
“How many survived?”
“Many of the children survived,” Rian told him. “They were far down the line so that their mothers were slain and not they. All that is left of our people are a few starving children, a few lads and some young maids. All of the men fit to fight went to war. Of the women, only Morwen and I are left.”
“And of the children,” Beren asked. “Is there a child- a girl, by the name of Vanwa?”
“Yes,” Rian smiled. “That young one survived and is in our care.”
“That at least will bring me peace to know that Hathaldir’s death was not so much in vain. It gives me great relief to know that Vanwa is alive.”
“What do you mean, lord? That boy died?”
“Yes,” he answered with detachment.
“How?”
Then Beren broke to them the news of their father's deaths. Rian wept, but Morwen only cast down her eyes and thanked Beren for the news.
Beren remained in Dor-lomin for a few weeks, recovering of weariness and grief of grief only somewhat, and Rian welcomed Beren to stay with her and the men of Hador for good.
“Lord, I know that you must be grieved indeed,” she told him one day. “We are close kin, Beren, and I would have you stay in my household and rest from your labors. Now that our kinsfolk are gone, there is little to defend. Stay here and do not go into the Wild.”
Beren answered, “I have no place to rest, nor are my labors finished. How can you stand your grief? Your father is dead, your mother is dead, and yet you are here, and you seem happy.”
“That is because I am,” Rian answered. “Our fathers will not need to trouble about their children any longer, and I have my own happiness to consider, Beren. I am to be wedded to Hour.”
“Congratulations.”
Then Rian asked Beren if he would wed her cousin Morwen, saying, “You are the true lord of the Edain. You must continue the line, unbroken. A match with Morwen would guarantee the purity of the line. She is beautiful, lord Beren, said to be the most beautiful woman of our race, and she was hit hardest by your news.”
This caught Beren as a great surprise, and he asked, “Then has the girl been weeping behind closed doors at night? When I told her that her father was dead, she did not shed a tear.”
“Morwen has her own way of mourning, Beren. She is, after all, of the house of Bëor, and she is fierce in mind and mood, but I would like you to comfort her.”
When Beren laughed, Rian led him to the gardens where Morwen was standing alone. She was beautiful, dark haired with keen gray eyes, the eyes of the Edain. She was a highborn lady, graceful and dignified. Any man would be a fool to refuse her, but she seemed to Beren to be merely a reflection of himself. She was close in kin, and though she did not weep or appear to be brooding, he could sense the anger and emptiness within. She had lost her family too.
“See there, Beren,” Rian said. “She is dying inside. Go to her! Speak to her! Tell her how beautiful she is. Is she not pleasing to you? Might she offer you some solace from your grief? Hour is so to me, and Morwen can be so for you.”
“I am driven by my oath to avenge my father and Morwen shall find a better husband than I,” he said to Rian without even considering, and he left her household soon afterwards.
Beren did not plan to wed at all, but to avenge his father. He was now the only surviving member of his family but Beren did not care for love, thinking himself better off alone. He did not love Morwen, nor did she seem to love him. He also kept the words of Gorlim in his heart. He had warned him about love, and this was a warning that Beren had the mind to heed.
Even as he walked from the garden, Beren saw that Húrin, the lord of the House of Hador had come to Morwen. He spoke with her, and Beren watched their progress with interest. The next day, the lord came bearing gifts, each time more lavishly expensive, and Morwen’s heart was turned to him, which was no surprise to Beren at all. Morwen soon became the mother of Túrin the dragon slayer, and Rian became the mother of Tour, the mariner and messenger of Ulmo the Vala, both children born to become legends, and both women met a tragic end.
Revenge was all that was upon Beren’s mind. The confirmation of his mother’s death only rekindled his anger and thirst for blood.
******
Beren returned to the Wild, becoming a stranger among his own kin. He wandered Middle-Earth alone for years in bitterness and misery with no hope in his heart and no home to go to. Soon, he felt little or nothing at all. He only knew one thing: His mother was dead, and his father was dead, and he was utterly alone. His clothes were neglected. The color had faded from them, and the color had drained from his eyes. They had once been gray and beautiful, full of a keen light and intelligence. Now they were dead and lifeless. He was swallowed in rage. At least when he had believed his mother was alive, he had some hope. His hope and pursuit had cheated him.
Now Beren had as yet seen no creature that could track him down, but as he wandered, he realized that something was following him. But every time he realized the presence was there, it was quickly gone again. It agitated him, and he became quite anxious. He wandered farther, into forests, into swamps, and at last, he came to the mountainous regions to drive this thing out into the open. He saw from afar the volcanic peaks of Gorgoroth, the Mountains of Terror. He saw that it was terrible. It was a desolate land and perilous, for many evil things roamed those mountains. He knew that if he were to find this thing, it would allow itself to be seen there where it thought it had an easy chance to kill him.
This something did not feel evil. Whenever Beren met with the servants of the Enemy, there was an aura of evil hovering about them. He could sense if from a long way off thanks to his experience as a hunter and his years spent seeking out and destroying the Enemy. But whenever he felt the strange presence; he felt it like a cloud of a sort of despair. He did not care if this creature was more potent than any he had yet faced. If he killed it, that was good. If it killed him, that was just as good.
He made the slow, treacherous decent up the peaks themselves so that he stood thousands of feet in the air. Breathing was hard, and weariness was upon him often, though he was not fatigued beyond endurance. He stood there in that sunless land and gave out the silent command for this man or beast to come out from its hiding. He was ready now, and this would be the best opportunity his enemies had ever had to destroy him. They simply needed to give him a great enough blow, and he would be falling down, down, into the abyss below.
“I know that you have been following me, whatever you are,” he said aloud. “Show yourself, and one of us may live to see another day, but perhaps, never again the sun. If you wish to kill me now, do so, but it will be without pleasure. I do not seek death, and I do not desire life.”
And upon the rock ledge beside him, which was perhaps man high, there appeared a bird. But not just any bird. Beren recognized the hollow eyes, the pits of darkness, that accusing glance. It was that same bird that he had seen on that terrible day when he had come to find his companions lying dead and mutilated. It was the bird with the tuft of white feathers on his breast, and when he saw it, he sprang from where he sat and drew his bow, and the bird stared with little interest.
“You!” he hissed. “Why are you following me? Are you some sort of hell-hawk that makes a mockery of my grief? Fly or I shall shoot you!”
The bird stared at Beren and did not move.
“Who are you?” Beren asked, knowing how foolish it was.
This was a bird, and it had no mental capability, and of course, the bird remained silent. He thought of Gorlim, and he did not know why. He saw himself again racing the coming of dawn. He remembered crying to his father, The Orcs are coming! Then there was the tumble down the slope and the splash of muddy water that was mixed with blood.
He shook himself out of the flashback and bent his bow. Then the bird let out a cry, and Beren may have been imagining it, but he thought he heard Gorlim’s voice.
“It would be better if you were to rush upon that bloodied sword of yours, than to go on like this, Beren.”
Beren stood for a moment in shock and dropped his bow. “Who are you?”
There was no answer. This was a forsaken place. Not a soul was there, save himself and this thing with him. He sank to his knees, feeling utterly alone, lonelier than he had ever felt before.
“Speak! Why will you not speak to me?”
The bird squawked again.
“Do you get pleasure from tormenting me so? Leave me now, cursed demon!”
Beren sprang to his feet suddenly, then he loosed an arrow, but the bird somehow dodged it, even though Beren was a hunter and had wondrous aim when it came to the bow and arrow. Beren was even more amazed, but now he was angry and frustrated. The bird landed always again and again in the same position, staring at Beren as though he were acting foolishly. He emptied his quiver and charged the bird; he so desired to be rid of those scornful eyes. The bird had not expected this, and actually croaked in outrage and puzzlement.
“Ah yes!” Beren laughed. “Now you know how I feel!”
He ran, and then, he came to the edge of the mountainside and almost slipped right off the edge. He flailed his arms to try to balance himself and not fall over thousands of feet from earth. As he struggled to keep his balance, he dropped his quiver, and Beren saw it fall out of mortal sight. Finally, he fell backwards onto land and breathed a sigh of relief. When he finally caught his breath, he wondered suddenly, spontaneously: Why not jump?
He looked down below. It was sure death if you leaped from here, and Beren, for the moment, desired death and an end to his pain and grief. To end his suffering and to see his father and his mother again would be paradise enough for him. Beren was just walking through what seemed to be a miserable limbo world. He was alone in the Wild with none to turn to. Enemies were pursuing him wherever he went. He was tired of wandering and killing. All that he had been fighting for and all that he had once believed seemed vain. He only believed now that either he would die an outlaw from the plagues of mankind and the doom of death to mortal men, or he would finally be caught and butchered by the Enemy in the same way that his kinsmen had been. No matter how many Orcs Beren killed in his rage against them, the more they seemed to increase, and it had not made his grief any less burdensome to him, nor did he gain anything back from it. Not even his own humanity that he had lost.
The thought of taking his own life seemed like an open doorway to oblivion, and Beren became so obsessed with the idea that he sat upon the edge, dangling his legs as a child might. He plunged into his own gloom and depression, and he now felt prepared to die. Perhaps he would not feel pain when he fell? Certainly, Beren could not ever recall feeling any physical pain during those four years of his darkness. Would this truly end his pain? What had he left behind? He had left behind only the carcasses of his enemies. And that phantom of Gorlim that seemed to be haunting him now.
So now he stood up again and prepared to jump and take his own life, but then the same bird that had been watching him closely from a distance flew above his head and beat its wings against his face. It began to scratch at his face with his talons so that he had to back away from the edge of death for a moment.
“Can you not give a man a moment of peace before he is about to die!” Beren bellowed, wiping the blood out of his eyes.
The bird did not answer, but flew toward the open air, and Beren stared after him. It was just then that ‘dawn’ came. Then he saw, far off in the fog, a land that was in no doubt elvish, for the forest was fair and green, and there were hills and rivers, and upon the biting wind came the voices of the Elves. He stood for a moment listening, and his heart was warmed and stirred with memories of the Elves of Nargothrond, and the land before him seemed to be illuminated with a heavenly light. Such a sight was welcome to a man that had been wandering through nothing but cheerless wastelands for four years, so Beren hesitated, and then headed that way.
The bird followed him for a little while, always at a distance so that Beren could spy its shadow once or twice, but then it vanished. Beren had ignored it, but now, he wondered what kind of bird it was, and he wondered who had sent it. He returned his thoughts to the Elvin-city, and he began climbing back down the perilous precipices of Gorgoroth.
******
Before Beren could reach the city, he was forced to travel upon the pass of Nan Dungortheb, or the Valley of Dreadful Death. That was what the Elves often called it, and not without reason. This was the valley between the precipices of Gorgoroth and the Girdle of Doriath. There was no other way that a mortal man could know. All other passes were guarded heavily and remained secret by the Elves.
The paths of Dungortheb were the least trodden. Those who took that path were never seen again. It was there that the power of Sauron, one of Morgoth’s most terrible servants and the most powerful sorcerer of Middle-Earth, and the power of Melian the Maia, no less terrible to behold, nor was she any less powerful, met and formed together to make creatures of such horror and monstrosity that no one that saw them would speak of them because of the horror of memory. There were creatures there that were more ancient than the valley itself. In this valley was born the Children of Ungoliant, and she was a fell spideress of enormous size.
But Beren was totally ignorant of these spiders. He was worried about food, for he did not need schooling to know that the water that fell there was poison, and he did not trust the wild roots and plants. He almost starved himself in this land, and the region still was sunless, and he suffered greatly from thirst. Although he was the greatest hunter that lived, he was made the hunted.
On the second day of his passing through the Valley of Dreadful Death, he heard a strange metallic sound while he was climbing down the rocky slopes of the valley that seemed to echo in eternity. He stopped and looked all about, using all six of his senses, but there was nothing to be seen and nothing more to be heard. He began walking again at a much faster pace, when the noise was repeated, and it was right behind him. He quickly turned, but then he felt something tear into the flesh of his neck. It was a stinger, and drugged and caught off guard, he fell to the earth, seeing double and losing his sight altogether. He saw one thing before he swooned.
It was a monster, the most terrible thing that prowled upon the valley. The thing had thousands of eyes so that Beren could see himself mirrored a thousand fold; a hapless victim. It was hairy with eight slender legs, and a foul stench preceded it. It had a pair of fangs that dripped smoking poison. It was a spider of Ungoliant.
******
When Beren awoke, he found himself wrapped in some sort of spider-web. He struggled, but the webs were as thick and as strong as rope, and they cut into him like cords. The drugs still made him drowsy, but he saw what was happening. There was a spider before him; its fangs were poised for the kill. Beren let out a muffled cry and struggled with all his might. He wanted to live. He wanted to find that land he had seen from afar.
“My blood is as vile as your own, over sized apricot!” he said.
The spider was so surprised and amazed that it stopped. It had given Beren enough poison to kill ten men, yet here his victim was, crying and struggling and very much alive. The spider wanted to be rid of the noise quick, and it lunged at him. But Beren twisted his body so that the spider’s fangs cut only into the rope so that he could reach his sword. When he cut himself loose, he fell to the ground in a daze and could not see. If he had not had the small Elvin-blade that his father had given him as a child and cut the web, he may have become a meal for the spider. It hissed at him and he swung his sword, but he soon realized that these foul spiders had a hide like armor.
Beren did the only thing he could do. He ran like a hare.
The spider was so enraged that it let out that metallic, clicking sound, and there appeared four more spiders, even larger than it was. The spiders were thrown into a fury that no savage animal could match, and they ran in pursuit. Beren barely escaped with his life. It had been fate that had spared him-for the moment. Beren was dodging the poisoned stingers of the spiders when he tripped on his own feet, for he was weary and sickly.
Beren stumbled and fell, and as he rolled forwards, he felt himself pass through a hedge. He felt himself burning like fire as a thousand thorns cut him. He could not breathe for a few moments. He closed his eyes and almost fell unconscious again, but the pain was brief, and then he felt a rush and found himself unharmed upon sweet green grass. When he had the courage to open his eyes, he was blinded by moonlight. The spiders shook and hissed with anger, and the largest one of all tried to pass through the hedges as Beren had done. If a mortal could pass through, why not one of the mightiest of the Children of Ungoliant? But as soon as he began to pass through, a mist sprang up from the ground, confusing it and poor Beren. The other spiders were so aghast that they fled and were nowhere to be seen. They could not follow where Beren had gone to, and they seemed to be nothing more than shadows in Beren's memory now. Behind him lay Death, but before him? Hope?
He decided to go forward through the strange mists. He did not know if it was because of the drugs still or the mist itself, but every step took great strength of both body and will. A weight was upon his heart. Eventually he gave up walking and crawled instead for what seemed like ages until he passed through the mists, and suddenly the weight was lifted. He did not know it, but Beren had just passed through the Girdle of Melian, and this Elvin-nation was one of the Hidden Kingdoms. No mortal had ever set foot or even seen from afar this land. It was untouched by mortals. Beren did not know then that he had just altered the fate of Middle-Earth. No beast or bird espied him, for such was his skill.
The beauty of this land had Beren at his knees. Birds were singing, and then Beren felt warmth upon his hands and face. Dawn was breaking, and the sun shone upon his face. The sun was shining! Oh, the sun, and he was grateful to see her again. He had not seen the sun for two years, and he had long missed her. Beren saw deer in the trees before him, but he did not hunt for them. He followed them for a while, in awe of the animal’s grace. He slew no animal flesh during his time of wandering. He had sworn to use his skills only to destroy the Enemy.
Then there came a gentle rain that left everything fresh and sweet scented. There was green here, and green there. There were flowers in great numbers. A few flowers caught his eye that he had never seen before. They were the star-shaped elanor and niphredil. They were the most beautiful flowers that he had ever seen. He heard the sound of water and ran for it. Surely, this water was fresh and clean. He drank his fill and ate the fruits from the ground that seemed to melt in his mouth. They were so tender and juicy and its whiteness exceeded all whiteness.
The forest was lit with gold, and when twilight came, the forest shone with silvery light. When night came, the forest of Neldoreth was a wonder. The stars shone full upon the sky, and the forest was kindling with their light. There were lights of silver, pearly white, and pale blue. It was a feast of lights. There were no monsters stirring. There were wolves howling, but they were ordinary wolves that only made music in the shadows. There were no tortured screams in the night. Beren was able to sleep peacefully for the first time in years and years.
******
It was a night of June, and Lúthien had a spar with her father. She was his heir and yet he would not allow her to travel to Nargothrond with his messengers to meet King Finrod within his own realm. How could she be expected to rule if her allies were strangers to her? Besides, she had begun to put the matter of marriage to the forefront of her mind. Most of the Eldar were wed as soon as they came of age. Lúthien had counted over five centuries and was yet unwed. This was unusual, even for a princess, but no one within Doriath seemed satisfactory to her father or to herself, and the only serious proposal she had ever received was from Finrod. Now, however, she began to see marriage as an opportunity to leave Doriath and become her own master. She could not imagine that Finrod was as overbearing as her father. But Thingol had not allowed it, making the usual excuses that the road was too perilous, that she had a duty to her own people, that she guarded many of the secrets of Doriath, and they could not take such risks.
What was worse, Melian had said nothing in defense of her daughter nor anything to support her husband. She merely continued talking with Artanis, her niece by marriage. Artanis could have been mistaken for one of the Vanyar, for her hair was a brilliant golden, and she was as tall as or taller than any man in the room. She was, at first glance, beautiful beyond compare, and at second glance, otherworldly, a light out of Valinor for unlike the Sindar, she had been born in Valinor. Artanis was low spoken, her voice steady and deeper than most maids like Melian. Her eyes were a quick and piercing gray and revealed that she was ancient and intelligent.
As much as Lúthien loved Artanis, sometimes she resented the Noldoli princess. Melian had warmed quickly to Celeborn’s wife. In fact, she was the one that suggested that Artanis come to Menegroth as a courtesy and arranged for Celeborn to dance with her at her welcoming feast. Since Artanis was a royal lady but a stranger to the Sindar, Melian took her under her wing. She was often in the Queen’s shadow and her dedicated protégée, closer to Melian than her own daughter, which Lúthien did not fail to notice, but she feared mentioning it would alienate Artanis. Instead she avoided them when they were together and did not question them about what they discussed. She knew for a certainty though that Melian taught her secrets. Perhaps Melian fancied that Artanis and Celeborn were much like her and Thingol, or she saw some rare qualities in the maiden that she did not see in Lúthien. Maybe she wished Artanis had been her daughter. It broke Lúthien’s heart just thinking about it.
She came upon Daeron writing in his books beside one of the many pools of Menegroth. Sneaking up beside him was easy with her dancer’s feet and her beloved scholar wrapped up in his book. She dipped a slender hand into the cool water and splashed his face. Reeling with shock, he fell over backwards with a grunt. As she laughed, he climbed to his feet and assessed the damage to his books.
“The ink is blotted,” he frowned. “Honestly, you act childish sometimes.”
“And why not?” she instantly became serious. “I am always treated as a child. Even the smallest of children are allowed more freedom than I. I have seen it. Children without escort walking hand in hand to the surface and gone for hours. It makes me ill!”
Let us leave these caves and go to Neldoreth,” she clutched his arm eagerly.
He hesitated, “Is that wise?”
“You know what Mablung and Beleg said last council. The borders of Doriath have been blessedly free of Orcs lately. It is safer than it has ever been since the Long Peace. It has been too long since last we made music, just you and I. My heart is weary and longs for the forest. A little fresh air! That is all I ask.”
“Neldoreth is the Northernmost forest in our realm. I shall have to try to leave out which forest we are going to when I inform the king.”
“Why must we inform him?”
“We would risk his wrath!”
“Then you must tell him, I suppose. He trusts you more than he trusts me.”
So Daeron rose and went to ask. Thingol usually gave his consent freely unless he had heard reports of evil weather or Orcs. Nonetheless, Daeron was always anxious whenever he approached the king. If a dark mood was upon him he might even refuse to see him.
“Might I speak with his majesty concerning the Princess’ wishes?” he asked the door wardens. They passed inside to inquire, then let him pass.
“He is not in the best of spirits, I fear,” one murmured. “He and the princess fought, it is said.”
“Wonderful,” he sighed heavily.
He entered and bowed low and remained kneeling, though it was not custom and uncomfortable. A little humility never hurt, and he wished to avoid eye-contact as much as possible.
“Let me guess,” Thingol’s voice was hard. “She asks to depart Doriath for Nargothrond. She hoped if you spoke for her I would relent.”
Daeron let out his breath and said happily, “No, my lord. She asks only to go above surface for a while. I keep telling her Nargothrond is all but unfinished and not half so beautiful as Menegroth. Perhaps if we go and visit the other parts of Doriath, she will forget the whole notion”
“She will not be content with that. She never is.”
Thingol clenched his jaw and Daeron feared he would refuse. If so, Lúthien might do something really rash.
“How far above surface?”
“Just to the forest.”
“To Brethil? That place is infested with Men folk now. Since it is not within the Girdle I could no longer refuse them.”
“No, no. We will stay within the Girdle.”
“Where exactly then?”
Daeron stretched his mind for an evasive answer and found none. Then Melian spoke.
“Is it not enough to know that Daeron is with her? He has guarded her well thus far. I think it unfair to question him so. Denying Lúthien so much as this may turn her heart from you.”
Her words were magic. Thingol softened and nodded.
“Remind Lúthien that though Orcs have been absent as of late, it does not mean they are gone forever.”
Daeron thanked them both many times. He returned to the princess with smiling face and hers lit up. She leaped and embraced him and kissed his lips in sisterly fashion. That gave him more joy than she knew.
Will I ever have the courage to tell her? He wondered. And would she laugh? No, she would pity me as she has pitied her other suitors. And he wondered as before if she would ever wed and who it might be. Her father was the only male that had sway over her, a powerful sway. It would take an uncommon Elf to match it. He did not know who could, but it was certainly not him.
*******
Beren was adamant in his decision to leave Doriath. He began to sink back into gloom. He had enjoyed the sense of freedom that had come over him after he left Dorthonion for the last time, for he never felt more at ease than when he was alone in the wild, self reliant, practicing the skills that he had learned of necessity and after years became as natural to him as breathing. But he became very embittered and reclusive because of the horrors and grief that he had endured. He was far from recovered yet he felt well enough to begin traveling again. He was convinced that there was nothing for him here, for he had encountered nothing but the beasts of the forest. There was no sign of Man or Elf. The land was bountiful, and he supplied himself with fruit, greens, nuts, and fresh water. He hunted no flesh still and only took dead wood to burn on the harsh cold nights on the road. Although he was not thrilled by the notion, he knew that he had tarried too long. He shouldered his paraphernalia and took a last drink from the cool waters of Esgalduin. The waters had a strange taste, but not unpleasant. He might never come across such a river or stream again.
He had sighted Doriath upon the mountains and hoped to find Elves here, but if there were any, they were hiding, and that infuriated them. He started to hate them all, despite being fostered by them in his youth. He had seen his people fall and Dorthonion overrun. The Eldar seldom fought in the open, unwilling to sacrifice their precious lives. They allowed Men to suffer the worst blows of the wars. And now he was the last of Bëor’s House, the First Men. His kin was slain, his true home lost, and Nargothrond was yet far away. He supposed that he could venture to Brethil where the folk of Haleth dwelt. He had left Dor-lomin because Morwen and Rian were there. He could not gaze upon them without hearing Gorlim’s voice and seeing Hathaldir’s face drain of color. Perhaps he would find purpose in Brethil. Perhaps he could save someone.
He had tried to leave Doriath before, but something seemed to hold him there. He wandered the northern borders slaying Orcs. In Orc hunting he excelled, and since they knew his look they fled. Now they had more to fear than Strongbow and the Huntsman in that region, for so they called Mablung and Beleg. He was aware now that there was some bewitched barrier about the land, but he did not quite understand it. The Girdle of Melian allowed him to pass through, but it was getting more difficult to pass in and out of it. It seemed to let him pass reluctantly, his feet grew heavy as lead, and only his willpower gave him the strength to step out of the Girdle. He wondered if he could leave at all anymore.
As he stood there, wallowing in grief and the haziness of his future, there came suddenly enchanting sounds. It was a strange but fatalistic chance. He heard what sounded like a woodland pipe, and it trilled an eerie tune. The forest stilled until there was only the music. It rang in his ears, scarcely recognizable after so long. Beren frowned at first. He wondered if he was going mad. But his curiosity was something that a Man cannot control. The sound was more beautiful than anything he had heard before. None of the pipers among his people or even the minstrels of Nargothrond could have matched it. The person or thing that winded such was unearthly, and the instrument a gift from the gods. Before he knew it, the pipe led him deep into the woods of Neldoreth, unwilling or willing he knew not. There was someone in this place, this false paradise, or so he had called it. They could not be evil. Perhaps he would finally speak to another soul, find out where he was and where he should go next. But perhaps that was more than he could hope for.
The woods of Neldoreth were vast and ancient. White moths flew about, and there was certain magic in the air. The trees grew mighty and tall with many leaves. These were birches and willows, and the trees' bark was smooth and white. Beren had come to the heart of the forest where many of the beeches grew and peculiar beings dwelt, and it was even whispered that voices could be heard from some of those great trees. He stumbled, numb, past the great trees and the smaller saplings, past the tall flowers. The green grass, splashed with silver dew, fell before his unrelenting feet. He came toward the hill of Esgalduin without fear, following the tunes of the pipe where the trees grew round and the grass was green always.
The eerie song resumed, tormenting him and driving him further. He felt the dream-spell coming upon him. He struggled to shake it off. He did not want visions. He recalled the minstrels of Nargothrond. When they played, their listeners sometimes became victims to their songs. Visions came unbidden to them so that the minstrels could re-enact battles, and bring back dead heroes and fair maidens. Finrod his foster-father had taught him a lesson in this way.
When he was still a boy and his father’s squire, Beren had asked a minstrel what their secret was, and the Elf had shrugged.
“The spirit is always seeking a way to forget the flesh,” he replied. “When I play music, I slip out of myself and become one with my instrument, the story it is telling, and the group listening. The same happens to them, and their minds alter. They cannot help it. And so, because they are being tapped in this way, they may see visions. Mind you, not everyone sees visions. Sometimes the musician is at odds with the music or themselves. Or the listener is at odds with the other elements. Or they simply will visions away.”
As he came near, he heard another sound that was even more alien to his ears. A feminine voice cut through the cold night air and rose in laughter. Beren froze in his steps. Her voice was lovely and musical; the laughter was like bells that banished ill. No mortal woman had such a voice. He also thought he saw a piercing, white glow through the leaves that near blinded him. Shielding his eyes, he swore and swept aside the leaves, and there he saw something that his eyes did not expect to see in waking life.
There he saw Lúthien for the first time, the princess of the Sindar and most beautiful of all maidens, dancing upon the hill of Esgalduin to a pipe unseen under the stars. She wore a mantle that was sewn with golden flowers. Her raiment was blue, and about her brow was set a circlet of gold, encrusted with gems like the stars, and these were what had caused the blinding glow of light. Growing upon the hill like a thick blanket was the two star-shaped flowers elanor and niphredil. The flower buds opened up before the maiden’s very feet. The stars and the moon seemed to sway its pale light upon her and made her a queen of stars, or perhaps that was a trick of the dream-spell. She danced noiselessly, her beauty a more irresistible enchantment than the dream-spell itself. She had hair dark as the shadows of night, loose and long. Her eyes were gray as the twilight’s gleam. She was tall and slender, and trod barefoot so that he saw her feet were small and white.
She was an elf-maiden, he supposed, though something about her did not seem elfish. He had seen other Elvin-women of course, but this Elvin-maid was by far the fairest one he had ever seen, and he thought at first that she was only a vision caused by the dream-spell or that he was finally going mad. He blinked and shook his head.
This cannot be possible, he thought. That damnable piper is making me hallucinate. Or it is a trick, an evil spell to make me fall as Gorlim did! He reached for his sword, but the song ended, and the maiden began to speak.
“How I wish that I could have a dancing partner and an audience, but my only partner is the wind and my only audience is the mute trees!” she spoke the Sindarin tongue, and her voice was beautiful and soothing.
“I would dance with you,” came a treble voice from the other side of the hill. “But then your only music would be the wind in the trees!”
The maiden laughed again. Was it mischief or amusement in her eyes? The minstrel resumed, and the maiden danced. She was no evil enchantment. She was real; no vision set to entrap him, as he had at first feared. No vision could be so clear or fair, and Beren did not want to believe it was only a trick either.
The maiden danced, her arms moving about gracefully, her skirts flowing with the movement and with the gentle breeze. The dream-spell seemed to have been cast upon them both. She danced with eyes closed, his fixed upon her, drinking in her beauty and the beauty about them. He knew then this sight would ever be with him. He was aware of everything, her most of all. But there was also the dim glow of the moon and stars that stood motionless for that moment in time to bear witness. There was the cool chill of the night air that caused them all to flush with life and sharpened the senses. There was the sweet scent the maiden cast off, and the smell of the grass and earth. He no longer felt an ounce of fatigue, and he forgot his desire to depart, and that he had not eaten for days. Indeed he forgot all his troubles on the road. The ice was slowly melting from his frozen heart. His emotions returned to him at the sight of the maiden, and with them, he also began to burn with a sudden passion.
Suddenly, a name passed his lips. “Tinúviel.” Immediately he wondered from whence it had come. It had been years since his dream had visited him and he had forgotten it. He struggled to remember.
He supposed the piper must have heard, for the song ceased upon a sharp, unpleasant note.
“What is it?” the maiden asked her companion. “Your eyes have been wandering like a hawk's and your notes are going flat!”
“I just thought I heard a voice,” the pipe-player answered, although Beren could not see him.
“Perhaps the trees are speaking to you and telling you to correct your tone,” the maiden teased.
“No Ent nor Huron has such a voice. There may be an audience for our concert after all.”
Beren realized that he had not cared to be silent coming toward them, nor had he cared to hide himself. He ducked down into the undergrowth quickly, and the Elvin-minstrel gave himself away by moving his head toward the sound suddenly and standing up. The minstrel stepped into Beren’s view. He was an Elf, that much Beren knew at once. He was not tall, according to his kind. He was a few inches shorter than the maiden and even more girlish looking than most elvish men. He had a smooth face and high cheekbones. His hair was chestnut brown and long, and his eyes almond-shaped and large. They were dark brown. He was slender as a willow wand with delicate hands made for his station. He wore a gray tunic and gray cloak trimmed with white deer fur. Gray was the color of the Royal Court in Menegroth.
His pipe was in his hand, his left hand. It was a surprisingly plain, wooden pipe, and yet it made such beautiful sounds. It was made of ivory white beech, made from the stuff of the mighty tree Hirilorn herself that roofed the Great Hall of the Thousand Caves. It was unadorned, not even painted or carved with runes. A simple instrument, but winded by the greatest minstrel of Elder Days.
The maiden smiled and looked about, “An audience! Just as I wished! Play on, Daeron. The night is growing old, and I do not want to waste my time looking for the unseen!”
“It is the unseen that can be deadly, but I hope it is nothing.”
“It is nothing!”
“My lady,” Daeron said, “it is getting rather cold. We should return to the Caves.”
“But we just started,” the maiden frowned.
“You know that I want nothing more than to be here with you and devote my talent to the spirits of the forest, but it may not be wise.”
The maiden snorted, reminding Beren of a fiery horse, and replied, “Save your wisdom for the councils, my friend, though sometimes I think that my kinswoman Artanis has more sense than the whole lot of the court!”
“Which may be so,” Daeron was insulted, “but she is of Noldoli birth. I do not trust her.”
“Do not speak ill of my kinswoman!”
They were silent for a moment. Then they each seemed to repent without words. They were close friends and understood each other’s body language. Daeron sighed and began playing his pipe again, and the Elvin-woman continued her dance.
Beren knew there was something else different about this maiden than the other Elvin-women he had met. She was Sindarin, and he knew that many of the Sindar hated or feared Men, even though the Elves were a peaceful people. They had a great mistrust of strangers, and Men were frowned upon as a wicked people. It was not Thingol's only flaw. If the girl saw Beren, she would most certainly run in fear, so he made sure to hide himself and was as silent as a mouse. He dared not even take a full breath. But he soon found that he was hypnotized by the Elf-maid's dance, so he climbed into a tree and sat upon one of its branches and watched her from there. He began slipping farther down the branch to get a closer look without realizing it, and also forgetting that if he came too close, he would be spotted, and an alarm would be raised.
The branch began to bend and give way. Beren felt it bend a little beneath him, and he came to his wits again. He heaved a weary sigh. Then he heard a loud snap, a ripping sound, and the next thing he knew, he was falling to the ground. He let out a muffled cry and landed with a heavy thud, and dozens of leaves fell lightly after him. Beren lay where he was, gasping for air.
“Aye Elbereth!” he groaned, sitting up with great difficulty. Surely, he would be bruised and sore to the touch for many days.
The maiden gasped and stopped dancing at the sounds, startled. The song of the pipe faltered. The maiden stood there, frozen. She was now at full alarm and listened intently.
“What in the Valar's name was that?” said Daeron.
“I do not know,” the maiden answered, still staring forward warily. “But it is plain that a branch over there was broken. We must go and see what there is to see.”
She came toward Beren. He stared for a moment, and then he crawled his way into hiding only just in time. The minstrel followed after her and studied the broken branch.
“Well, whatever it was,” said the elf-woman, pointing toward the tree, “according to the signs, it had a long way to fall.”
“That means it could still be here and may be wounded.”
“Then let the poor thing go!”
“I told you that I heard something,” the minstrel insisted. “We should leave now. It may not be safe.”
“A broken branch means nothing. Branches may fall from trees of their own accord. Or an animal broke it.”
“It could be an enemy.”
“Tell me again what you heard.”
“Footsteps.”
“There are some of the Eldar that live in the forests,” the girl reminded him. “Remember Nellas? And then there is the Laquendi. They are usually too shy to show themselves, but when I call, they answer me.”
“Then call, milady. None of the Green-Elves will greet you, however. It made too much noise to be an Elf.”
“All because you have become spooked over a little noise-“
”I am not afraid, just keeping on my guard. That is my duty.”
“Well, perhaps you do your duty too well!”
“That is not fair! It was your father that sent me with you, and he was wise to have done so. We are not even supposed to be here! He thinks you are away near the Caves, which, if I may remind you, are leagues away from here!”
“Yes. My Father wants me to stay in the Caves. The Thousand Caves may be carved like a stone forest, but stone is not my wont. I prefer the untamed Wild where the trees are green and I can hear the song of Yavanna thunder in my ears and dance as the twilight lingers! I have become restless in that palace!”
“The Queen’s Girdle cannot ward off all evil things! Anything powerful enough could break through it. She said so herself.”
“I have not heard anything,” the maiden said wearily. “And you always hear something when we go anywhere.”
“I do not claim to hear anything. I heard it! I am only careful for your sake, and I heard a voice plain as day.”
“Well, then perhaps your ears are keener than mine are.”
“What would your father say of all this?”
“You must always be prepared for the worst, my child. Danger wears many masks,” the Elvin-maid answered sarcastically. “The usual sort.”
“But your father is very wise. You should listen to him more often. Then you would not be so careless.”
“Careless? I am not careless, and who is it that says I do not listen to my Father? I listen to him, of course. I must. After all, I am his daughter. It is my duty to listen to him.”
“Well, then you do not take in what he says, and you do not follow his advice. You must know that is what fathers are for.”
The Elvin-maid sighed and said gravely, “My Father does not give me advice. He locks me away in his hoard, fearing the harm of all the most terrible things. Once you have heard the ancient one's lectures that he gives over a score of times, you soon build up a wall without realizing it. I love my Father, of course, but he is too protective of me. He calls me his greatest treasure; a jewel beyond all value.”
“Your father lavishes some affection on you. What is wrong with that?”
“I am no ornament to his kingdom! I am an Elvin-maid! I am sick of the cage, and I grow ill with each winter that I am forced inside of it. Since childhood, I have had to wander in those halls, wishing to venture in the Wild. I was born in these woods, if I may remind you, Daeron, and here, my heart is. I am Sindarin, born with a great love for nature and starlight. Do you not understand that?”
“You know better than that. I know you feel trapped in Menegroth and that you do not want to go back, but I still feel concerned, Lu-”
“Do not feel concerned for me!” she hissed. “I am tired of your concern!”
Beren was disappointed. He had almost caught the girl's name, but she had interrupted.
“Listen, Daeron, you must pardon me for hissing at you, but what I have said is the truth. What we heard might have only been an animal,” she continued. “And I do not often have the chance to come here anymore. You may bring our horses, and if we hear another sound or if we sense any sort of pursuit, we shall flee immediately, much to my dislike, of course.”
“You should come with me. I do not like leaving you alone here. Whatever we heard, whatever it is. Someone or something, I fear it is the worst.”
“Whatever the danger, it cannot be as dangerous as you would like to believe,” the Elvin-maid assured him, smiling at him with disdain from over her shoulder. “We are, after all, only in a forest and well protected by my Mother's girdle. It cannot be Orcs. Orcs would do more damage than break a branch! They would whoop and clash their swords like the savages they are, and they would give no such clear warnings before an attack.”
“Orcs are terrible,” Daeron shivered, his tone had also become much more serious. “We both have had our experience with them. Morgoth’s breed they are, after all.”
“I know all about Orcs, Daeron,” the maiden chided. “Do not school me in that subject! My Father has already tried his best to teach me to fear. Do not worry about me. If it were an enemy, he would be after our horses. So you fetch them, and I shall stay here and keep a lookout.”
“Very well. I will not try to woo you into coming with me. If you truly wish to prove your bravery and fierceness, that is well, but do not make me regret this. I swear that one of these days, your bravery will be your undoing.”
“What is that supposed to mean, and what would you have to regret? You are a minstrel! You can sing as much as you like because you live without troubles.”
“And you have troubles? You sing like a bird!”
“I would just like to come here more often, and not just in secret.”
“Perhaps you will. There is naught else on your mind, is there? If you have such troubles, than it is my duty to try to ease them!”
“No, no. Of course not.”
“Good!” Daeron kissed her hand. “You know that you and I promised to keep no secrets from each other.”
“And I appreciate that, Daeron,” the Elvin-maid smiled. “You are very sweet. Now go on! I thought you were the one eager to leave!”
Daeron laughed and then gave the Elvin-maid a comical bow to make her laugh, which she did.
“Stop that, you silly fool! Fetch our horses, and we can leave! That is what you want, correct?”
“As you wish, my lady. Remember that if any harm were to come to you, your father would have my head!”
“Do not fret! I will be careful.”
Daeron sprang off into the trees. Beren lay still in the undergrowth, cursing himself for being so careless. He should have known sooner from experience and common sense that he could not stand on that branch. The trees in Elvin-lands were limber. What had happened to his wits? Could this Elvin-woman's dancing be that powerful over the mind? Beren had seen other Elvin-women, and none had caused him to make such a mistake, and most Elvin-women were very beautiful. None had cast such a spell of enchantment on a man of the Edain.
But then he got an ambitious notion in his head. He believed that maybe he could try to speak to the Elvin-maid. After all, she did not seem too alarmed by his little mistake, and the minstrel was gone. He hesitated. Then, taking a risk, he began stepping out to her. But the Elvin-maid seemed to realize that she was not quite alone. She was tuning into every sound and made her way slowly toward her companion.
Beren pursued her closely behind, walking lightly almost by her side and not daring to breathe. At length, the Elvin-woman stopped and sat beside a hemlock. He was able to make his way cautiously behind her. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He was speechless. What could he say? As soon as he spoke, she would likely flee. He laid his hand gently upon her white arm. She was warm, and her skin was smoother than he thought possible. He let in a sharp breath, but she gasped as soon as he touched her and wrenched her arm free. Then she broke into a run, never looking back, and she ran like a deer, for she ran with grace and speed.
“DAERON!” she screamed.
Beren ran after her, tongue finally loose, calling out to her in Sindar. Few knew the Elvin-tongue except for Elf-friends in the house of the Edain, which was Beren's kin, but the Elvin-maid did not hear him. She was light-footed, and Beren could not catch her. She reached Daeron and the horses first, and he stopped following her there. It was not worth allowing the minstrel to see him, for he bore a sword at his side, and Beren only wished to speak with the Elvin-woman, not frighten her as he had done.
“Changed your mind, have you?” Daeron asked triumphantly when he saw her.
“No time! There is someone in these woods!” she said, panting. “We must get out of here now.”
The maiden leaped full upon her horse, and Daeron followed. The girl gave out a command, and the horses reared upon their hind legs and bolted off like a flash of lightning. Beren did not pursue them. Perhaps the elf-maid would come back. Her flight had caused him sore pain, and again he wandered the forest until he stumbled in the Elvin-river. There he sat and bent with misery.
“So this is where my long road has led me,” he said bitterly. “To hunger and a life of loneliness, and enchanted waters pitiless.”
******
Beren was hurt that the maiden had run from him. He fell into deep loneliness and despair, but he remained in those woods so that he could see her again, for that touch of her arm made him more eager than ever to speak to her, and gave him a glimmer of hope. A summer waned, an autumn glowed, and to his joy, he heard the sounds of a pipe on one warm, autumn night. He came back to the hill and saw her there again.
She returned a few times again on warm autumn nights, wearing a beautiful crown of golden leaves to match the season. Once again, Beren fell under that strange enchantment. Had he perhaps gone mad with love? He had to speak to her, to let her know that he was there. He wished that he did not have to spy on her like some desperate admirer. But Daeron was always with her, doubly alert and much more arrogant, and the two could not stay long. When he left her side, which was rarely, Beren could not speak aloud at all, and he could not go to her. Chains were on his limbs. The two Elves spoke seldom themselves to each other, and their voices were always in soft and quick voices in their own tongue. Therefore, Beren had to be content with watching her from a safe distance. Beren venerated her; for in her he saw all that was hallowed in Middle-earth, all that was powerful, wise, and strong, and all that was beautiful among women and accommodating.
She came again in winter. No snow fell upon the ground in Doriath, and it was warmer than the season’s wont thanks to the Girdle of Melian. Her visits became less frequent and it seemed that she left as quick as she came. She came wearing a diamond like a star upon her brow. Beren knew that he had long since fallen in love with her, and he did not care if she were Valier, Elvin-maid or Woman. When she left Neldoreth, he followed after her and Daeron to the very gates of Menegroth. Lúthien looked toward the trees where Beren was hiding and saw his face half-hidden by the leaves.
“Daeron! Daeron, come quick!”
Daeron ran back to her immediately, drawing his sword, “Are you all right?”
“I thought . . . Never you mind. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me as of late.”
“All right then. Well, I must go, and your father is expecting you. Farewell.”
She stared at the trees for a long while.
“Who are you?” she said aloud. “I know you are there,” Lúthien said grimly. “I have become rather keen to feel your presence, because you are always there! I can feel your eyes on me. Reveal yourself!”
Beren shifted uncomfortably and ran. Lúthien saw his shadow and heard the rustling of leaves. She vowed to herself then and there that she would discover him and see his true face.