Chapter 5: The First Meeting

Five
The First Meeting

Beren finally spoke to the Elvin-maid on the very eve of spring. She had not come for many weeks, and he had begun to waver in his hope that she would come ever again, but she did. This time, she came alone to find whoever it was that was stalking her. She was terrified. In all her years, this was the first time that she had ever dared to leave the Caves entirely alone. As much as she desperately desired it, she had often lost courage. She dreamed of going beyond Doriath’s borders, but Daeron would venture no further than the Girdle of Melian. She knew that her strange admirer would not appear in the presence of another, and so here she was despite her doubts.
While she waited for him to appear, she sang to gather her strength and resolve. Her song was heart piercing. So for a while, Beren could only listen to her song. Lúthien’s voice was the voice of a Maia’s. Therefore, it was fairer and clearer than a woman’s or even an Elf-maiden’s. Her mother had taught her songs of power and trained her to use her voice. She sang one of these songs of power now. It was a spring song. The whole wood and everything in it seemed to respond. Wherever her feet touched, flowers sprang into bloom.
The song also had an affect upon Beren. His spirit seemed to be renewed, as it had been the first time he saw the Elf-woman dance. He found his courage again. Suddenly, he stepped out of his hiding place, and the light of the moon fell upon him. He was struck with a feeling of exposure and fear, and his senses told him to flee. He had never meant to appear before the maiden again, and it was a great shock to him, and he frightened Lúthien badly. She sprang away from him, her song cut short. Then she stared at him, wide-eyed, unable to flee herself.
Beren was afraid she would run from him again, and he fell to his knees and covered his head, crying, “Please! I will not harm you!” Despite his pleas, the maiden, now having no doubt that he was a Man tall and strong, ran toward her horse. But then Beren sprang lightly to his feet.

“Tinúviel! Tinúviel!”

Beren called after her in a clear, ringing voice. The woods echoed the name all about them. The place did queer things to sound. For a moment Beren wondered if the gods themselves had heard.
The Elvin-maid stood frozen and unbreathing and ran no more. She marveled at the fact that this Man could know her tongue. But it was the name itself that delayed her. She had heard that name before, but she could not place where. She slowly turned around and took a deep breath. There was suspicion drawn upon her face. Suspicion, and beneath it there was genuine curiosity. She studied him from head to toe with a hint of awe. After all, she had never really seen a Man before, but she avoided looking into his eyes. She remembered the promise that she had made to her father long ago, and she remembered the warning that went along with it.
In her eyes, Beren was an anomaly and far different than she would have imagined one of his race to look. He was bulkier than most Elves, his height acceptable but not terribly tall either. He was only about an inch taller than her. All males of any race were dwarfs compared to her father, however, so she was a poor judge of proper height and knew it. She found it rather pleasant that she did not have to strain her neck to see his face. He had lean muscle upon him and strong legs and arms. His hair was long and unkempt, and there was a bit of stubble growing upon his chin due to negligence.
She was tempted to touch his face to feel what hair upon a person’s face was like. Elves could not grow beards, and she had never been half so interested in the Naugrims’ beards. The Naugrim was entirely unlike the Eldar and grew their beards until they reached the floor. Lúthien would tease them sometimes as a little girl and was tempted to tug on theirs beards, but to touch a dwarf’s beard was not a prerogative of even a princess. They were stingy about their beards. Thanks to her charm, some of them made an exception to that rule just for her.
His beginnings of a beard were not repulsive to her, though it made him appear older than he truly was. The hair upon his head and chin were raven-black and shaggy. It was a fine, lustrous color and only needed the refinement of a good wash and a combing. She could not see his ears because they were hidden behind so many tendrils of hair. Her father had told her Man-ears were round, and she longed to know the truth of the tale. It was impossible to be certain, but she guessed that he was young for his kind. She heard that their hair turned gray and then white with age, their skin yellowed and became like thin parchment and wrinkled like dried fruit. He showed few signs of such age. Instead of rather ‘feminine’ looks, he possessed rugged features. He had a finely chiseled nose, thick eyebrows, and a scar here and there. He defined the word ‘handsome’ rather than ‘fair’ or ‘beautiful’ which would have been said of Eldalië males. The differences did not bother her at all. If anything, they had the opposite effect. Her hand must have been trembling with excitement.
As for his garb, it was plain, worn with age and rough weather, and strictly for survival purposes rather than for decoration. He wore what once must have been a scarlet, short-sleeved tunic that was faded with age and travel, brown pants and a brown cloak made of wool. The earthen colors kept him camouflaged and the cheap material kept him reasonably warm. He also wore brown leather gloves over his hands and brown boots made of even courser and tougher leather. Over his shoulder was a pack made of deer-hide likely filled with basic emergency supplies and gear. He seemed to carry no weapons, but she was not going to assume that it was truly so. Such an assumption was dangerous.
“Who are you, vagabond?” she demanded, using her most authoritative voice. “What do you want of me?”
“My good woman-”
“Make no mistake, stranger! I am not a Woman!”
“Forgive me, milady. Of course you are not a Woman.”
This was the first time in years that Beren had close contact with a like being. It would take time to recall lessons from youth and such things as welcoming another and making proper introductions. Much of his time had been spent in informal solitude. It was also hard to speak with the maiden’s penetrating gray eyes upon him, scrutinizing his every move and carefully interpreting his every word.
He had never been this close to her, save on the first night when he risked touching her arm. Her back had been to him too. He had always been at a safe distance since. He took his chance to study her again. She was even lovelier up close. Her skin was smooth and flawless. She was small-boned and seemingly delicate. She had an oval shaped face, high cheekbones, a narrow nose, and full lips. Everything was the perfect size and shape and was feminine in every way. Her lips were soft and pink, her eyebrows thin and her eyelashes thick. Her ears were pointed, like all Elves, and yet she did not seem elvish. There was something more to it than that. Her piercing gray eyes seemed to glow with heartbreaking innocence and an otherworldly wisdom all at once, which was maddening. The age of an Elf usually showed in their eyes, but not in hers. They could be a window upon her thoughts and emotions, or a gray veil if she willed it. A bright light seemed to shine about her, an inner light.
Her favored color was dark blue, but she was also fond of red and white. Black, too, could become her. She wore black this night, a black robe hemmed with silver and detailed with a myriad of silver stars and the moon in all his stages. They were made so that the moonlight enhanced them. She also wore a silver circlet about her brow rather than gold. Other than that, she wore no ornaments, and her feet were bare. She moved with a dancer’s grace and moved more soundlessly and more lightly than any Elf because she was the daughter of Melian. Shoes were more for decoration than for protection. Sturdy boots were only needed for long journeys across rugged terrain. She seldom bound her hair, though when she did she wore it either in one plait or in seven braids. She wore seven braids tonight.
Beren took a step forward. He should not have been so hasty coming toward her, because her eyes dilated all the more, and she sprang back again. She drew a sickle dagger that she had hidden within the folds of her cloak, and it glinted and shimmered in the moonlight, and her eyes flashed. It was the only weapon she was permitted to wield, hardly a fearsome weapon but deadly in her clever hands. Mablung had taught her to toss knives and to fight with one at close range with a foe. Her dancing feet, light weight, and incredible speed gave her an edge as well.
“Stay back!” she warned. “I am fiercer than I look! I shall gut you before you can lay hands upon me, knave!”
There was a tense moment, and Beren took a couple spaces back.
“Are you not a Man?” the maiden demanded harshly, saying the word as though it were a curse.
“Yes. Are you not of the Elvin-kindred?” Beren asked with the same tone.
Lúthien suddenly leaped forward. With speed and grace that outmatched Beren’s own, she came up from behind him and had him at knife point. Beren held up his hands and sank to his knees.
“I am not here to harm you, woman!” he cried.
She almost let the knife slip and hollered, “For the last time, I AM NOT A WOMAN!”
“No, milady!”
“Now who are you? Whence came you? What is your purpose here? How did you get here? Whom do you serve, and what do you want with me?”
“Which question should I answer first?”
“Whichever one you choose!” she said in annoyance. “Speak quickly or I shall water the new grass with your blood!”
“My name is Beren and I did not mean to frighten you. I am the son of Barahir Lord of the house of Bëor.”
The Elvin-maid paused for a moment. She had heard Beren's name before in song, songs that she had learned and sang now and then, and she remembered one such ballad that praised him for the deed of slaying Orcs. Any enemy of the Orcs would be friends to the Elves. His father Barahir was also well known, but she continued to interrogate him.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated.
“Searching, that is all.”
“A rather vague answer!”
“The details behind it are so, Milady.”
“How did you get here?”
“I do not know myself!”
“Still vague. The next answer will not be so. I will not tolerate it! Whom do you serve?”
“King Finrod! Now listen, I am a friend to your people-”
“Finrod is king of the Noldoli!” Lúthien corrected sharply. “They are a kin alien to me! You do not serve me or my Father!”
Despite her words, the name Finrod stayed her hand and she let down the knife.
“I have not come to hurt you, Tinúviel.”
“Tinúviel?” she sounded more curious than demanding now. “Why do you call me Tinúviel?”
“I felt that the name fit you somehow.”
“It is a beautiful name,” she said. “I shall be Tinúviel. I cannot improve upon yours, however.”
He had to laugh. “Beren you prefer, and Beren I will be.”
She slowly sheathed her dagger.
“The name means-”
“Nightingale and daughter of the twilight. Yes,” the Elvin-maid smiled. “I know. But how comes it that you know my tongue?”
“When I was a child, my father spent much time hunting or fighting off Orcs at the border for King Finrod. I was fostered by the Elves, and they taught me much that I know. That included learning the Elvin languages,” Beren explained. “The Elves used to tell my father that I was a master of tongues and speech, but please. I would like to know your real name.”
“Well, so far, you have not tried to harm me. I suppose I can trust you. The name is Lúthien,” the Elvin-maid told him, bowing her head in courtesy. “But you may call me Tinúviel. I may keep it as a nickname, for the children of the Eldar may choose their own names.”
“Lúthien daughter of King Thingol and Melian the Maia?” Beren asked.
“Yes. I am Lúthien princess of the Sindar,” she stepped into a full bow, laughing. “But how could a mortal know my title?”
“I have heard many tales about you. The Noldor loved to tell me stories about some of their own kin.”
“The Noldor love to gossip! It seems that they do not know what else they can do with their tongues, that is, if they are not cut out in the battles they stir.”
“Well, they told me many things, but even the most exaggerated tales do not come close to describing your beauty, Tinúviel. Your eyes are like the lamps of the heavens, though they are gray as the unclouded twilight. Your laughter is like water falling upon stones, hair as dark as the night. I almost mistook you to be Elbereth herself.”
“Well!” Lúthien laughed. “I see that some of your greatest deeds have not yet been recorded in the tales we have heard! You are a poet as well as the greatest hunter the world has seen! I do wish you would go on, but I think we would be standing here from spring to summer listening to your lyrics! So now you are a warrior, a hunter, and an artist. What other skills are you hiding? I am impressed!”
“It amazes me as well. I suppose I was inspired to make art recently.”
“Tell me, son of Barahir: How did you get here? My Father does not allow Men into Doriath, and he makes certain that they cannot enter. He despises Men. Sharp-eyed bowmen guard all the paths that lead here, and no one can pass through my Mother's Girdle unless she wills it. I do not understand how you could have passed through it unscathed. Any other living creature would be lost forever passing through.”
“Frankly, Lady, I did not know that I came hence until you named it. I came here by the paths of Dungortheb and lost myself. But I do not want to speak of that dreadful place now.”
“Yes, of course. I understand. I have heard many tales about that path. We may speak of something else.”
Lúthien did not bring up that subject again, but she spoke to Beren now with the greatest respect and awe. How could this lone Man have braved such a journey? And for what reason? He has little provisions with him. He has been hiding in these woods since last spring. Why? Does he even know himself?
“You are very brave, milord,” she said. “Perhaps it simply was your courage that allowed you to pass through my Mother's Girdle. There may be other reasons, of course, but I do not know them and will not debate with the scholars and theologians.”
“I did not even know of such a Girdle! I was the first living Man to pass into the Hidden Kingdom, and I did not even know it!”
“Few Men know of it, Beren, and it should remain so. We have been sworn to secrecy. Now that you are here, however, I am afraid that the Hidden Kingdom shall be secret no more. I shall have to kill you,” Lúthien teased.
She drew her sickle knife, and Beren pretended to beg for mercy.
“Nay. I will guard the secret with my life.”
Lúthien smiled and answered, “I shall kill you later. I have little desire to kill an honest man.”
“Gorlim and all the others were right. There truly was a kingdom in these forests.”
“Who is Gorlim? He was one of your companions, was he not? Gorlim the unhappy?”
“He was grieved. After all, he lost his father to war, and then he lost his wife.”
“What do you mean by lost? Did he ever find her?”
Beren sighed and said, “If I were to tell you, I would be referring to ancient times. That at least is how it feels to me, even though it was only a few years ago that our company was demolished. I am not sure that you would like to listen to unpleasant stories.”
“I am not sure, or is it you that is unsure?”
“I have already lived the tale, telling it would only upset you.”
“No, please, tell me. I have heard of your father and his company. They are, after all, great allies of King Finrod, and we are on friendly terms with him still, despite my words earlier.”
“You know Finrod intimately?”
“Well, one day I may be expected to rule and renew our alliance with him. But do not change the subject. Tell me about Gorlim.”
“Very well.”
Then Beren told Lúthien about his father and the Men of Dorthonion, and of the ensnaring of Gorlim.
“Alas that Sauron has ensnared many others like Gorlim in such a way!” Lúthien said when he was finished. “We hope one day to punish him for all the hurts he has caused us. But in the beginning, he was not wholly evil. It was Morgoth that perverted him, and it is he that has caused suffering to us all.”
“Suffering? The life of any man is full of nothing but suffering, if not by Sauron’s hand than something else.”
“There must be some respite for you.”
“Tell that to my people.”
Lúthien bowed her head and then asked, “What happened to your women and children?”
“Slaughtered by Orcs. Only a dozen or so survived, women and several children.”
“I am very sorry for your loss, Beren. I do not know what I can say to ease your burden.”
Beren said after a long pause, “Lady, I must thank you for your gentle concern. You have been a comfort to me. You have brought more relief to my wounds than my sword has. I have killed countless Orcs with her, and it only calmed my rage.”
Lúthien answered, “It has been my pleasure, Beren, to help you in your need. Yet I must admit that I do not believe a sword can heal your hurts. Shedding tears is better than shedding blood.”
There was a long silence. Lúthien cast down her eyes, but Beren did not take his eyes off her. He placed his hand in hers, and tears fell from his eyes. It was strange, for Beren had not wept for four years now. He had been unable to weep. But as he spoke now of his father, he was unable to hold tears back.
“I loved my father,” he said quietly. “I know that for certain now. He had been a stranger to me as a boy, and after he sent my Mother away from us, I gave him naught but bitter words. I regret it now.”
“I am sure your father does not grudge you of that, wherever he may be.”
“Do you know where he has gone? I asked the Noldor many times where Men go when they die. Elves go to the Halls of Mandos. That I know. But what of my people who are also Children of Ilúvatar?”
“I cannot answer that any more than the Noldor can. I was born here in Doriath, not in Valinor. We do not know where Men eventually turn up. It is all only speculation.”
Beren turned his head.
“I have heard many tales about you also, Beren,” Lúthien told him, changing the subject. “Mostly in songs. They say you may be the greatest hunter that has yet lived. I wonder if that is true.”
“Would you like to judge my arching skills for your own?”
Lúthien raised an eyebrow with interest and nodded. Beren loosened his bow and set an arrow to it.
“With your elvish eyes, can you see that tree there? The one with two trunks?”
“Aye.”
“That is my target.”
“It must be nothing more than a blur to you!”
“It is, but I do not use sight alone for aim.”
Beren loosened his bow with a twang, and the arrow whistled toward its mark. Lúthien squinted and saw that Beren had hit the heart of the tree. She clapped her hands in praise. He took out another arrow, ran his mouth over the feather, and took aim again.
“Are you aiming for the tree again?”
“That arrow. I can split it right down the middle.”
“Your sight is not keen enough for-“
Twang. The arrow passed out of mortal sight, but Lúthien saw it splinter into the first arrow. She looked at Beren with amazement and new respect, and he smiled and slung his bow over his shoulder.
“How do you judge my skill?”
“My Father would make you chief of his archers if he could see the glory of your skill,” said Lúthien, abashed.
“Would you like to try?” Beren held his bow out to her.
Lúthien laughed and said, “I am afraid that bow is far too large for me!”
“Very well. Hunting is much more than a sport for me.”
“But what sort of game have you been hunting here?” Lúthien asked as Beren put away his bow and quiver. “Certainly not Orcs or other creatures of Morgoth? If so, you should leave Doriath. No such foulness can set foot on this soil. It belongs to my Mother, and it is well protected by her Girdle, no matter what my Father says. There is no such errand for you here. Besides, if another Elf were to spot you, he may mistake you for a spy and kill you before you could convince him otherwise, or are you here to hunt some special game?”
“I hunt only Orcs and beasts that serve Morgoth. Never do I hunt animals,” Beren replied, melancholy again. “I have slain Orcs near your borders. Perhaps it is not quite as safe as you believe. But I was hunting for something else.”
“What?”
Beren hesitated, but he looked into her face, full of concern, and her voice seemed to caress him, so he answered “I am hunting for substance, for reason, for my life since my father and all of my House was murdered. One of those was Hathaldir, a cousin of mine, but I considered him a little brother. He had suffered a death worse than he could ever deserve. He was a determined fighter and loyal to a fault, but he was a boy. He was an innocent. I bear the guilt that I had not been murdered along with them. I have tried to take my own life several times, but something stopped me each time. My father had sent me to spy upon our enemies. Hathaldir had wished to go in my place. He was always so eager to please, but I was against it.”
“You blame yourself for their deaths. You must not. Why would you want to die? All life is precious, and your life is your own.”
“My life has not seemed precious. I often wonder why I was spared, and I wonder, if life is so precious, why is it taken away so easily?”
“All I know is that if you were spared, it was not without a powerful reason.”
“What would an Elf know of a Man’s troubles, especially in matters of life and death?” Beren said too harshly. He had confessed much more than he had intended and regretted for a moment even speaking of his griefs. “You told me you know nothing of our fate.”
Lúthien hesitated. “You are right. I know nothing of your kind. But I am willing to learn. Teach me.”
“No. Perhaps you are right, Tinúviel. I imagine you have been upon this earth many more years than I. Besides, I no longer desire to die. For now I believe I have found what I was searching for and more than I had ever imagined.”
“And what might that be?”
“Oh, if only you knew,” Beren answered. “So, you are not going to run away from me as you did before, are you?”
She quickly changed tones. “Why did you follow me the last time I came here?” she demanded. “Do you know how alarming it can be to find someone spying on you, especially when it is someone you do not know and do not know their intentions?”
“I know I frightened you, but I meant no harm. You see, I love to watch you dance, and I have long desired to ask you something,” Beren said, drawing close to her.
“What is that?”
“Fair Lady Tinúviel, would you be willing to teach me to dance?”
At this, Lúthien laughed. She had never expected such a request.
“You wish to learn how to dance?”
“If you would be willing to teach me, I could learn.”
“It is not as easy as it looks. Are you that keen to learn?”
“Absolutely. You seem to enjoy dancing. You dance as though you had no troubles.”
“That is not true,” Lúthien laughed. “I have more troubles than you may realize. But, yes, I love dancing.”
“I would like to give it a try. They danced in Nargothrond as well, but I never went in for that sort of thing.”
“I will teach you to dance if you teach me of your kin. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal.”
“I wonder, do they ever dance beyond the Bitter Hills?”
“No. You must pardon me, for I have never tried to dance before.”
“I can understand that. Watch carefully and repeat what I do.”
With that, Lúthien began showing Beren all the steps of the song. Beren imitated her as well as he could. Once Lúthien was satisfied with his progress, she began singing the tune and clapped the rhythms and watched as Beren made an attempt to dance. At one point, however, he made a mistake trying to manage a difficult step, and he fell. Lúthien could not help laughing, and Beren did not mind. He began laughing at himself. Then Lúthien helped him up onto his feet.
“Do not think I meant to laugh at you, Beren, but you reminded me of myself when my mother was teaching me to dance,” Lúthien said. “I was only a little Elvin-child. I was not so graceful as a little babe. In fact, you are doing rather well for your first lesson. I tripped and fell every time I attempted that step and I would end the lesson near tears. I thought I would never learn to dance like my Mother. But I mastered it, and I felt like I was flying rather than just following steps. Then I danced before the court and they all agreed that I was the greatest dancer they had ever seen.”
“That is not too hard to believe. No one succeeds their first time. They must taste the bitterness of failure before they do.”
Lúthien began looking toward the sky. The stars were beginning to disappear and the horizon was becoming brighter. The dawn was soon to break, and she would have to return to the caves. She did not desire to leave. Beren was the first Man she had met in all her days, and he loved her dancing. He was also very kind and intriguing to her. He was not at all the way her father described the race of Men to be. Beren was not at all a monster. She knew that she would have to return to the Caves. She was expected.
“Come, Tinúviel,” Beren said, and he snatched her hand suddenly, and Lúthien trembled at the touch. “Dance with me!”
He spun her about, and she laughed. “I must admit that you are a good student,” she said, but she broke away from him and whistled for her horse. “My Father will worry if I do not come home before the dawn. I, being his daughter, know that he would probably send a hunting party after me if I did not arrive by then.”
“When will you come back here to Esgalduin?”
Lúthien heaved a sigh and stroked her horse. “I can never be sure, Beren. My Father does not like it when I come here. It is so close to the borders of our land and just a few miles away from my mother's Girdle. He still believes that the Girdle could be broken, and that the servants of Morgoth could destroy Doriath. And he always says to me: There are many perils in the world besides Morgoth. And these perils you may know nothing about.”
“What of Daeron? That is what you told him, is it not?”
“How much did you overhear when we spoke?”
“I learned he was a little protective of you.”
“Yes. I am afraid that is true.”
“Is he a kinsman, or something more?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It seemed as though you two are courted.”
“No!” Lúthien said too sharply. “What an outrageous notion! But he is waiting for me at this very moment at the gate of Menegroth! If I am but a minute late he will search for me and may even find you. I apologize for the way I reacted when you first appeared, but most of the Sindar would not have given you a chance to defend yourself. I have to leave now!”
“But will you return?”
Lúthien hesitated, a little uncomfortable with the question. Then she answered, “I will try. We had a deal after all.”
He had a sudden feeling that if he allowed her to leave now, she would not return, and he said “How long must I wait for you?”
“I told you: I do not know, but I have enjoyed your company. I hope that you find the thing you were searching for, Beren. You seem like a man worthy of it.”
“But I have already found the thing I was searching for, Tinúviel. That is why you must come back as soon as you can. You must teach me more,” Beren insisted. “Promise?”
“Very well,” she consented. “I think I will come here once again within the month, but do not cling to false hope. I said I think I shall come, for now that spring has come to Doriath, there shall be many things that the Princess must do.”
“Thank you. Even an unsure answer such as this is heart lightening.”
Even though she had spoken of leaving with great haste, Lúthien found herself hesitating. She felt his gaze upon her. Though she had kept her promise and avoided matching her eyes with his, she had been aware of them every moment he was near. Then Beren pulled her to him so suddenly that it startled her and put his arms around her. She was shocked at first, but then she grew afraid.
“Something has been nagging me," Beren said.
“Daeron is certainly searching for me by now. If he finds you-”
”Do not be afraid.”
She was about to say, I am not afraid, and remembered her dream sharply. “I must leave now,” she said quietly, casting down her eyes. “Please let go. This is unnecessary.”
But Beren did not let go. He only held her more tightly.
“Why will you not look into my eyes?” he asked. “All night, you have never once looked into my eyes.”
“My Father . . .”
Beren cupped her face in his hands and pulled her toward him so that they were inches apart. At first she closed her eyes. Then she sighed and decided there could be no harm in looking into his eyes. What possible danger could there be? She was amazed when she did. His eyes were unusually bright, and they were stormy gray. They struck her with remembrance. This was the Man that she saw constantly in her dreams since she was a child!
Of course, she was a thousand times more terrified of him than she ever had been before.
“Oh!” she said in a little voice.
“What is it?”
“I must go.”
“Did I say something wrong, Tinúviel?”
“That name, Tinúviel. I have heard it before! Do you not have some other name?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you called Echermion or Camlost perhaps?”
“No! My name is Beren and Beren only.”
“But that is not what you called yourself in my dream!”
Beren suddenly took her hands in his and cried, “I know now that you were in my dreams as well!”
“No!” she shook her head. “My name is Lúthien, not Tinúviel, and you are not Echermion!”
“You are afraid!”
“Is that what you want?”
“I did not want to frighten you. I do not want you to be afraid of me.”
And then Beren leaned in to kiss her. She had long since known what he was attempting and gasped. In a panic, she slipped out from under his arms and mounted her horse quickly.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I must go!”
“No, Tinúviel, wait!” Beren called after her.
The way he spoke that name halted her. She looked back at him, and Beren could see she was in great anguish.
“It is not my choice.”
“Whose choice is it then?”
“I do not know!” she cried. “I do not know whose choice it is! I do not believe that I have been given free will in this matter!”
She hesitated and sighed, and Beren took a step toward her, torn at the sight of her distress. But Lúthien recovered at once, and she no longer hesitated. She drew her dagger again.
“Stay,” he begged.
She shook her head and said, “I cannot. You- What do you want from me? You, you are a mortal. Whoever heard . . .”
She trailed off, and Beren took another step forward.
“I know it is unheard of: A mortal and immortal, but I do not care. I do not care who you are whether you be Valier, Elf-maid, or Woman. I assure you that if you leave now, I will die. Perhaps I will not be dead tonight, or tomorrow, but some way or another death shall find me, and I will not resist it.”
“I cannot listen to this!” Lúthien rasped. “Why are you trying to ensnare me?”
“Is that what you think I am? Some trick for your ensnaring? I assure you that I am no servant of the Enemy. I am a bitter foe of Morgoth, nor are there others of my kind ready to spring at you at unawares, for my kin are dead, and I am alone here. I wandered like a mindless animal, and not until I saw you did I master the darkness in my heart. You see? My life is short as it is. You cannot leave me now. I have not much hope left.”
Lúthien had heard every word, and she knew he was sincere. In the moment that she paused, Beren caught her hand in his and helped her down from Iavas. He kissed her hand and put his arms about her again, clasping her close. She did not draw away, but she trembled, and she had the deepest look of confusion and distress. Beren understood.
He released her, saying, “I see that I cannot win your heart with words. I am only mortal, and I am clumsy with words. Go now, if you will, but know that my life goes with you.”
Lúthien stared into his eyes for a long while, amazed, then she slipped from his arms again and left, but the anguish she felt was growing steadily worse. Beren watched her go, passing like a dream.
“Ere Spring is born, the Spring hath died!” he cried.