Chapter 8: Oaths

Eight
The Oath of Finrod

Beren left the safety of Thingol's lands, and no danger befell him on the journey. He felt wretched. He cast himself upon the ground and wept in anguish.
What have I done? What will befall Lúthien now that I have left her forlorn? Will she follow after me and risk death and capture? What will happen to her once she learns of my death? he thought. Will she fade from grief, or grow stronger because of it? Might she find a lover among her own kin and rule as Queen of Doriath when her time comes? Once I am dead…
For that is what Beren believed would become of him. He was certain of it. He realized now in full what he had vowed to do before Thingol, and now, he held fierce debate with himself. He could not abandon Lúthien forever, and he could not return to her until he had one of the Great Jewels, the Silmarils that Beren had heard tales of when he was a child. He knew he would have to find his way through many perilous lands and at last wander into Angband, Hell itself, and then face the Evil One upon his throne in his full majesty. He could not imagine living to see the iron halls, but he knew now that he was bound by oath, and he had only the faint, frail hope that perhaps he would see Lúthien again in the future.
She must weather the storm, he thought. She is strong. She shall weather it. She is more than a mere girl.
“At last,” said a voice. “You rode as though death were at your heels and not in the path before you. Although, seeing as how your trial went, I am quite surprised Thingol did not send assassins after you.”
Beren looked up into Artanis’ face. She had pursued him alone upon a silver gelding. Though she was Finrod’s sister indeed in looks, she reminded him of Queen Melian in manner.
“Did Lúthien send you?” he asked doubtfully. “Or was it perhaps the father?”
She smiled with bemusement, “I am the Queen’s faithful servant. It was Melian that sent me, though I serve Lúthien as well, even if she may not know it.”
“The Queen?”
“Aye. She has told me that you are the one that will herald doom upon Doriath. The fact that you passed though the Girdle was proof enough for me. She failed to mention that you would herald doom upon Nargothrond as well. Seek my brother Finrod Felagund and remind him of the Oath of Barahir. And give him my love.”
“Why would Melian aid me if I herald doom upon Doriath? And why would Artanis aid me if I herald doom for Nargothrond?”
“Call me Galadriel.”
With that Lady Galadriel spurred her gelding and rode for Doriath with all haste. It seemed that Melian was not the only enigma he was to encounter. However, he knew he must give heed to her words and rose from the ground, hardening himself once again, and his face grew stern and grim. At least he would not go alone and without provision to Angband. He recalled his father and their company, and the loyalties he had clung to before his years of exile. He knew what he must do, though such talk of doom would make it all the more difficult. He must go to Nargothrond at once.
He signed to Iavas and mounted him. The Elvin-horse Lúthien had given him seemed to know the way Beren was going, even though the horse had not been outside Doriath. Or had he? He was a wild horse, tamed only by his mistress’ touch. He sped on like an arrow through Twilight Meres and climbed the hills of the Falls of Sirion tirelessly, and Beren did not need to command him. Iavas was an intelligent beast. While Beren rested near the river in the Fens, the horse left him and came back. He suspected the elegant beast had scouted out the land.
“Where have you been?”
Iavas whinnied and tossed his head about in answer.
“Well, you may take some time to graze. We have made good speed in such a little time.”
Iavas snorted.
“The grass in this land may not be as green and fresh as the grass that grows in Doriath, but it will have to do. I expect that the quality of your fodder will only dwindle as we come closer and closer to the Cursed Lands, I am afraid. Feast now while you can, Iavas. Meanwhile, I shall be washing up in the Fens.”
Iavas snorted again and walked toward the meadows and began gnawing at the grass.
“Bless you, Tinúviel, for such a beast,” Beren said silently as he made his way toward the river. “He keeps me company enough, and he is the only memento I have of you.”
“Caw!”
Beren looked above him and saw, to his greatest astonishment, a black carrion bird with a tuft of white feathers on his breast sitting upon a branch there. It cocked its head at him and let out another crow.
Beren stood for a moment in shock. The bird stared at him.
“Are you not the same bird that followed me through Gorgoroth and was there at my father's death?” Beren cried.
To increase his wonder, the bird nodded!
“Are you still following me? Why! What do you want from me?”
But the bird did not answer.
“Are you some sort of portent?”
The bird opened its wings.
“No! You cannot leave! I want to tear your wings off and gorge out your eyes first!” Beren growled and tried to catch the bird, but it took flight.
Beren stood there in doubt for a moment. This was the third appearance of this peculiar bird. He knew somehow that it would not be the last time he saw it. But Beren soon forgot the bird again and called for Iavas.
******
Beren passed into Talath Dirnen in the lands of the Noldor, and here this land was also called the Guarded Plain. Beren went that way, seeking King Finrod. He would need allies if he was to set out on the Quest. Perhaps then his attempt would not be so much in vain. But as he passed through Narog, he knew he was being watched.
“Take me to the King!” he called.
As soon as his voice sounded through the forest, two Elves sprang down from hidden watchtowers clothed all in green with arrows fitted to the strings of their menacing bows. They leaped out into Beren's path, and one of them commanded him to halt unless he wanted an arrow through his liver.
“Believe me, I am an excellent marksman.”
“Who are you and what is your purpose hither?” demanded the other, and Beren recognized both the archers at once.
“Gelmir? Arminas?”
“Why . . . ” Gelmir lowered his bow in bewilderment.
“This is no Orc or spy! How could I be so blind! Ah! It is the mask that is to blame. I cannot see a cursed thing with this mask on!” Arminas cast aside his bow and ripped off the mask. “It is Beren son of Barahir! He was once dear to Finrod, and he was dear to me as well, but now he is a ghost, and he has returned to call on us! What revelry!”
Gelmir dropped his bow and embraced him, laughing. When Beren turned to Arminas, his old teacher, he kissed him.
“It is a blessing to see you again,” he said in elvish.
“Likewise,” Arminas answered, grinning, “hero.”
“The last we heard of your company, you were in exile in Dorthonion! But you could not have come from there. We heard rumors that the Men of Dorthonion were slain!” Gelmir blurted out. “That was ill and grievous news to us all, and King Finrod was greatly troubled by it. But we know now that the rumors are not true! Thank Elbereth!”
Arminas clasped his shoulders, seeming to tremble with joy. “Now, tell me, Beren, where is your father? He was my student as well, and we were once friends, aye, still are. But I am afraid that his hair might be white now!”
Gelmir and Arminas laughed as though it was a capital joke. They were immortal and could not know of the horror of aging. The shriveling and sagging of the skin, the loss of vitality, memory fading and becoming no more than unruly dreams. Time passed quickly for them and took no such toll upon their spirits or their bodies. Beren’s smile faded.
“The rumors are true,” he told them. “I am the only living man of my father's House. They were all slaughtered by Orcs, and I have been delayed so that I could not come here sooner.”
The Elves' smiles faded at once.
“Come with us, Beren,” Arminas said gravely. “It is time for you to come home now.”
Then the Elves turned, beckoning for him to follow. They led him along the pathless lands, and only the moon and stars were there to guide them. The two Elves were on no road, but they found their way about without a backward glance.
There was no singing or merrymaking, and it was a rather somber journey.
“Well, Lord of the Edain,” Gelmir said at last as they walked, “for that you are now. I can see that you are a boy no longer. I am afraid that your grief has forced you to come early to full manhood. It is a pity that Men's lives are so short!”
“Indeed it is,” was all Beren said in reply.
“King Finrod shall be glad to look upon you again,” Arminas laughed, cheerful as always, no matter the circumstances. “He might have named you as his heir, if only you were an Elf. I sometimes wonder what kind of high prince you might have turned out to be!”
“You have looks enough,” Gelmir said. “All the Noldor shall rejoice at your return!”
“Now you are truly a hero!”
“Perhaps not all shall rejoice. Celegorm and Curufin may not be so glad to see me.”
Arminas and Gelmir laughed in agreement and answered, “Indeed their joy will be less, but it shall be a treat to see their faces when you come before the court and are once again the source of all fascination!”
As a boy, the two princes had frowned down upon him, and Beren remembered the first confrontation he had with him, and the high prince Celegorm the fair had not seemed so congenial, so Beren had no desire to see them again.
“Well, there is the gate, Beren, and we shall go to Finrod and tell him the news, or do you want to surprise him?”
“I will surprise him.”
Gelmir and Arminas laughed again.
“Only the son of Barahir would storm into the hall and make all others believe you were a ghost from beyond the grave! I cannot wait to see their faces!”
They led him along the halls. Then Beren burst through the doors of the king’s chambers and called out to Finrod. His sister Artanis was at his side. She had left Doriath to visit her brothers.
Finrod was of Finarfin-descended Noldor, fair haired and keen-eyed, his skin very light, and his stature tall.
“Hail, King Finrod, noblest of kings under heaven!”
“Beren?!” the king was so alarmed that he sprang down from his throne and embraced him. “Is this truly the boy I once knew?”
“Indeed it is, lord! You look the same as ever!”
“It must be a miracle!”
“Aw, lord. That is the story of my life!” Beren replied, and they both laughed.
“Then we must celebrate! We must prepare a feast in your honor at once!”
Beren’s smile faded. “A feast?”
“Of course! You cannot imagine how joyous it is that you have returned! I grieved for you when news of you beyond tall tales ceased! Now all the Noldor shall sing new songs for you!”
Finrod clasped him in his arms and looked upon him with a fierce pride. Then he realized that something was different about Beren.
“You look well for being dead, if a little travel-worn. But what has become of the ring I gave to your father? Surely he must have passed it onto you?”
Beren colored slightly as he looked down at his ringless fingers. He had worn the ring upon his finger for four years, never taking it off. He had always made of show of it to his enemies to strike fear into their hearts and so that they would remember their failure to uproot the house of Bëor. It had become subject matter worthy of song, he had heard. He felt almost naked without it, and of course Finrod would notice its absence. Now he felt ashamed.
“The ring is… in the hands of another.”
“Another? I am intrigued by this news! Whoever the lucky receiver is, my curiosity can wait! Hail to the Lord of the Edain!”
Beren sighed in defeat, and as the king ran to give orders, he sank in a chair, suddenly very depressed. Arminas and Gelmir stood beside him, puzzled.
“My lord, what is it that troubles you?”
“I do not have the heart to sing or dance or to attend a feast,” Beren answered.
“Well, we cannot leave you alone with grief. Come!”
There was a great feast in Beren's honor, and Arminas and Gelmir at last persuaded him to come, but he ate little and spoke less. It had been so long since he had joined such a social gathering. For many years now he had lived only with his Companions, and when they had dwindled, he was left entirely alone. Those years had made him self-reliant and secluded.
At the end of the table was the king, and he stood up and raised his glass.
“My dear people,” he began. “During these dark days, we have had many losses and grievances.”
“Hear, hear!” murmured some, and others nodded.
“We have seen much carnage and sorrow, and we have shed unnumbered tears as well as blood. Today, it may ease us of our sorrow to know that we have been given back one that we lost.”
The court began speaking amongst themselves.
“Tonight, I am quite happy to announce that Beren son of Barahir has returned to Nargothrond, and he is here as our guest of honor.”
Beren tried to conceal himself as best as he could. The Elves gave him their blessings, and then there was a celebration. Elf-minstrels were called in, and all the Elves began singing and dancing. This was too much for Beren. The singing and dancing only caused him a longing for Lúthien, and he needed to speak to the King. The elf-minstrels began to sing about her, and he sank low in his chair with his head bowed and his hands over his face. He left the Great Hall soon afterwards and wandered lonely in his old chambers.
Beren finally approached Finrod
“I did not come here for merrymaking, lord, as joyful as it is to be in these halls again, in which I roamed as a boy. I spent most of my life here, but I cannot stay. I remember that you took an oath before my father on the battlefield that you would aid him and his descendants in every need. It is time you redeemed that oath, if ever you loved me or my father.”
After these words, Finrod said nothing. Darkness seemed to pass over him, and he dismissed Beren with a wave of his hand. Then the king was troubled and walked alone in his chambers and spoke to no one and saw no one. Beren cast his eyes to the ground. He knew that Finrod would not deny him, but he knew that the king would be risking his life coming on this quest, and his death could cause the doom of all his people, and the king knew it. But he returned to Beren and spoke gravely.
“I will not deny my oath or my love for your father. Or for you. When you and your father left Nargothrond and I heard the rumor of your death . . .” he paused. “I felt responsible. I will do anything you ask of me, although it may cost me my life. What is your need?”
“My lord,” Beren murmured. “That is quite a tale.”
Then Beren told Finrod about his father's death, about his wanderings and his finding, and he began to weep as he told Finrod of Lúthien and the times they had shared, and her father's bitter resentment toward him. Then he told the king what his quest.
“For Lúthien the fair, too fair for mortal heart, I must taste the bitterness of torment and essay the burning waste and doubtless death. It is no more than I deserve.”
Then Finrod fell into horror, and he knew that his death was certain; that he would be killed on this quest as he had foreboded. At last Finrod understood the change that he had seen in Beren since their last meeting. He glanced at Beren’s bare hands and guessed then, too, who was the new keeper of the ring of Barahir. Therefore, he spoke in heaviness of heart.
“Your news explains much that I have thought strange about you these last two days, Beren,” he said. “It is plain to see that Thingol desires your death, but it seems that this doom goes beyond his purpose. The Oath of Fëanor is at work again, and I see that the war of the jewels is not over. The Silmarils are cursed and shall work the fate of this age. I am afraid that at the mention of the Silmarils, the Sons of Fëanor shall be eager for battle. You have made yourself some bitter enemies, Beren, and I do not speak of the Enemy alone. They are on both sides of you. Thingol holds a grudge, Morgoth the Evil One is your rival, and now Celegorm and Curufin are dwelling in my halls! This is unfortunate for the both of us. Even though I am Finarfin's son and am King, they may rise with a power far greater than I, for the brothers are subtle speakers and have bent a great many people to their own will. They have shown friendship to me in every need, but to you . . . ” Finrod laughed, “I am afraid they have never loved you, which you know already. Perhaps they shall deny you mercy also if they are told the purpose of your Quest! They will probably slay you before they allow mortal hands to fall upon the Silmarils.”
Beren bowed his head.
“Yet I swore an oath, and I shall not have your father stir in his grave by breaking it. I shall aid you in this Quest, vain as it seems, for your father's sake, and for yours. Thus, we are all ensnared.”
“My lord!” Beren fell to his knees and thanked the king many times, but Finrod remained grave and bade him to rise.
“Prepare yourself for battle,” he added. “Now we must face our people, and Celegorm and Curufin also.”
Beren told Finrod of Galadriel’s words.
“She sends me her love?” Finrod said in response to that. “I wish that I could see her one last time…”
Then Beren stared after the king, saddened, and Finrod laughed.
“Rise, Beren! We may as well all die singing praises to the Valar and to love and friendship! Come! This Quest may yet bear fruit!”
Then the king addressed all the people of Nargothrond. He told the people of Barahir's great deeds and his courage in battle, and he told his people that he himself was now leaving his kingdom and coming to the aid of Barahir's heir. Then he asked that his chieftains would aid him.
There was a great roar from the crowds. Their king could not leave them. With the king absent, much evil could befall them and the courtiers spoke of this.
“A king cannot abandon his people,” they said. “We will not become a scattered, leaderless race! Unless a steward is appointed, there can be no resignation of the throne for any reason or for any amount of time!”
But Celegorm and Curufin, once they had heard the mention of the Silmarils, leapt onto the pavilion, and Celegorm drew his gleaming sword. They saw the sternness in his face and no one dared to oppose him. He gave Beren a quick, piercing glance, and then he spoke.
“Be he friend or foe, whether demon of Morgoth, or Elf, or child of Men, or any other living thing upon this earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of hell, nor the might of the Valar, nor the power of wizardry, shall defend you from the pursuing hate of Fëanor's sons, if he should take a Silmaril and keep it. For the Silmarils we alone claim until the world ends!”
“Celegorm, I have no desire to claim the Silmarils as my own,” Beren tried to explain, but then Celegorm passed into a long speech that recalled Fëanor, his father. Those words had caused the rebellion of the Elves against the Valar. Then Celegorm spoke and foreboded that this Quest would be the downfall of the Noldor.
“This Quest has been set upon a foundation of crockery! What fool would dare to recapture a Silmaril from the very throne of Morgoth, let alone enter Angband at all! That is a cursed place, barren wasteland, Hell itself loosed upon Middle-Earth! The Curse of Mandos, if there is such a thing, is our impending doom! What this mortal seeks is not only holier than any things upon this earth, but the Evil One also covets them! If they were to succeed and take a Silmaril, they would stir the wrath of Morgoth, and we shall then see the true might of evil! Hell shall be unleashed upon us at last, and there will be no mercy. Only fire and ash and whip. Is that, my dear people, what you desire? Our own self-destruction? It is just what the Enemy has been waiting for! The triumph of Evil!”
“You think that what we saw in the Battle of Sudden Flame was the essence of true darkness?” Curufin asked, and his words were not as subtle as his brother’s, but he exerted no less power in his speech. “We saw Orcs, Dragons, Trolls. That is as nothing compared to what brews in Angband, lying in wait for the prophesized War of Wrath! Nargothrond shall be crushed into the dust! There shall be much fire and ice, and thousands shall die! You seek this Quest with a fool’s hope, mortal, and you shall receive a fool’s reward! Death!”
Then the people of Nargothrond began to doubt either Finrod’s council or the Sons of Fëanor’s. They murmured amongst each other. The brother’s words were true wisdom.
“The king is a fool, and if he goes out on this Quest alone, death shall certainly fall upon him,” Celegorm began again, for the will of Mandos entered the brothers, and they thought that they could seize the throne, for they were of the eldest line of the princes of the Noldor. “I am tired of fighting in recklessness, with false hope! If we are to overthrow the ultimate evil, we must exert all our might! We must give one mighty blow so that the Enemy is not left wounded to recover again stronger than before with newfound malice and revenge! I will not watch in horror as we stand alone among our brothers to be cut down again and again and again! We must have aid in our cause! We must have unity!”
“Yes!” Curufin said. “Unity! We are tired of bloodshed! I am tired of returning from war, bleeding and wounded in heart and body as well as in spirit! I am tired of seeing my hopes crushed into the dust! We have bled ourselves and endured great sorrow!”
There were loud shouts of, “Hear, hear!”
Celegorm spoke with much power, for his voice was clear and pleasant, and he was skilled with the tongue. None among the Elves of Nargothrond were unmoved by his words.
“I am tired of these fruitless attempts upon the Enemy, for he is everywhere and in everything! He is amongst us now! He knows where we are. He lives within us! Morgoth is not our only enemy. Ignorance and foolishness are powerful tools in our destruction as well! And estrangement! If we were to ally, the Noldor, the Sindar, the Teleri, we would become an invincible army! You cannot stand alone against such potent forces! I say that we make an alliance of Elves that shall make Morgoth and his demons tremble!”
“And what about my people?” Beren said boldly, and Celegorm turned to him and scowled. “For my people have fought also, and we have bled, and we have wept, and we have suffered as well as the Elves! If you wish to destroy Morgoth, you will need the aid of Men. We do not love Morgoth. We take part in the wars against Evil as well! We offer our aid freely, for we desire the path of truth and justice.”
“And why must we depend upon the race of Men who are traitors as well?” Celegorm said.
“My people, the Edain, the elf-friends, are not traitors,” Beren answered heatedly. “Do the deeds of my father, and my ancestor, Bëor of old, mean nothing to you all?”
“I do not trust these Men of alien race,” Celegorm pointed an accusing finger at Beren. “Why should we trust the ramshackle house of the Edain, or at least, what is left of them? For here stands their heir, Beren, but where is the Lord of your people? Where is Barahir?”
“He is no longer among us,” Finrod answered. “His life was taken by the Enemy.”
“Then that means we must depend upon this man? Beren? This boy? This child of man that believes that he can walk into Angband and pickpocket the Enemy of the Earth?”
Beren bowed humbly, though he was hot with anger.
“And where is Bëor, your ancestor? He indeed was a worthy man, but he died hundreds of years ago. His descendants are failing, for they are either corrupt or dead!”
“It is true. My line is failing because it seems that our service is no longer wanted,” Beren said coldly. “We have sacrificed, yet we are still scoffed as an ignorant, barbaric people? There are still many Men upon this earth that could compare with the first Lords of Men. And why do you, highness, mock me? For I am Lord of the Edain, and I have fought among you, I was taught by you, and I have rendered deeds that your people would deem impossible. If you can belittle my people so, then perhaps the Elves too are weakening and becoming corrupt!”
There was an outbreak of arguing at this.
“You see? Why trust these Men that would turn upon us and slaughter us from behind in battle?!” Celegorm demanded. “I trust in my brothers, the kin of the Eldalië! I trust in our combined strength! We cannot slaughter the Enemy in secret or with weakling Men! We must have unity, and we are denied this through King Finrod who loves Men more than he loves his own kin! He cannot sway our hearts any longer! For he is no Vala, nor is he Ilúvatar, and not even Ilúvatar Himself can stay the righteousness of the Sons of Fëanor!”
******
King Finrod scowled and threw down his crown at his feet. There was a silence.
“Your oaths of faith to me you may break, but I must hold to mine! I fear that a curse has befallen us here. If there be any that still are free from this curse, I should be in the debt of those few that follow me!”
Then ten Elves stood up who were faithful lords. They took up their swords and kneeled to their king as one and cried out in Quenya. Then one of the Elvin-lords took up the crown and kissed it. He rose and presented it to Finrod.
“My lord,” he whispered to the king, and his name was Edrahil. “I beg of you that you should name yourself a steward until you return. For you remain my king, and theirs whatever good or ill may befall.”
“Aye, my lord,” agreed another Elf. “I do not like the words that Celegorm and Curufin have said. I see a lust for power in their hearts. Have they not committed blasphemy by their words, lord?”
“Nay. The brothers are right. I am no Vala, and I cannot sway their hearts. And who here does not agree that this Quest is rather an insane jest? Be honest.”
The Elves were silent, and the king laughed.
“I have a feeling that Celegorm and Curufin will be beguiled by their own malice yet,” he said with a look at Beren. “But I shall name a steward to secure the throne, for I do not doubt that Celegorm desires just that.”
Then Finrod gestured to his brother, Orodreth, and set the crown upon his head.
He said to the people, “Brother mine,” he said, “Until I return this crown is yours.”
Celegorm and Curufin said nothing at the choosing of a steward, but they smiled and left the halls.
Then Finrod ordered Beren and the ten Elvin-lords to prepare themselves for the Quest, and they would leave in the coming autumn.
“Take ease, Beren,” Finrod said to him. “For now, you may relive your days as you did as a boy in these halls. I pray that Ilúvatar shall bring you that comfort at least ere we set out on the Quest.”
Beren nodded, and bowed to Finrod. Then he began walking alone in the halls when a foot appeared out of nowhere and caused him to stumble and fall to the floor. Then Celegorm and Curufin sprang from the shadows in ambush where they had been waiting for him.
“Here is the headstrong boy that we had known as dead. After four years, Beren, you have grown into a Man. The only good thing about mortals is that they grow up fast and die sooner.”
“Highness,” Beren said dryly.
He climbed to his feet, but Celegorm punched him in the face so that he fell to the ground again. Then Celegorm drew his sword and pressed the blade against his throat. Beren lay quite still.
“All right,” he cried, holding up his hands. “What do you want with me? I have ears, and I do not need a sword to my throat to have to listen.”
“Let us give you a clear warning, Beren,” Celegorm said and sneered. “If ever we chance to meet while you are alone and unprotected by your precious king, I shall kill you.”
Beren hesitated, remembering how Celegorm had been the only thing that frightened him as a boy. The prince had shed blood before, the blood of his own kin, and he knew that Celegorm felt enmity against him for many reasons. He was afraid that Celegorm might chance to kill him now. Then again, he knew ultimately that he was dead, conversing with the living. Celegorm and his brother had assaulted him and threatened him. What he said now did not matter.
“I shall consider your words,” he growled. “Now I pray that you put away your sword and speak with a civilized tongue!”
Celegorm scowled and then seized Beren by the shoulders. His strength was greater than Beren's, even though he was slender and not muscular like him. Because he was elvish and was of the Noldoli, Celegorm had been born with unnatural strength. He lifted Beren from the floor and slammed him against the wall, causing him to cry out in pain.
“No Man would defy me! You are an insolent boy, and like your fathers, you shall fail and betray our people!”
“Why would I betray the Elves? They raised me for many years, and I hate Morgoth, as you do, even though you two princes walk godless also.”
Celegorm narrowed his eyes and pressed Beren harder against the wall so that he was near crushing him. “If you indeed could ever go against all odds and retrieve a Silmaril, I shall send for it, and I hope it sears your flesh! For you know that no mortal hand can touch a thing that comes from Valinor and is holier than the whole lot of your race! If you refuse or answer with silence, then the Sons of Fëanor shall be awoken in wrath, and we shall send our arms against you!”
“I do not intend to keep the Silmaril for myself. I have no desire for jewels,” Beren choked out, his breathing becoming painful.
“Ha! Is that not what every Man desires? Men are weak.”
“We use what strength we have.”
“Strength? Your strength is as nothing compared to your greed, for Men are greedy.”
“Not unlike yourself, Celegorm.”
Celegorm struck him.
“Why are you concerned about me, Celegorm, if I am merely a mortal and cannot win a Silmaril by strength or arms? Indeed, I have no hope to win a Silmaril. It is impossible.”
“That is the first intelligent thing you have said, Beren,” Celegorm jeered. “What concerns me are your jests, and your mockery, and your insolence!”
“I do not desire any holy jewels. I wish I had never heard of the Silmarils.”
“Very tragic!” Curufin said scorningly. “A reluctant hero is just what we need during these days of darkness. What is it that you desire, if not the jewels?”
“It is for something you could never understand.”
Celegorm and Curufin laughed.
“Do you not know that nothing is beyond our comprehension?”
“Few can understand one of the greatest powers of this world and the world beyond, Celegorm, and it is a power that is stronger than greed or fear.”
“What power would that be that you suffer from?”
“Love. It is love.”
Celegorm paused for a moment and pondered what this might mean. Then he laughed.
“And who is the lucky woman that has found a man as bold as you?”
“She is not a woman. She is an Elf-princess,” Beren answered, grinning.
Celegorm’s laughter fell short, and he was suddenly angry. “Your race is certainly setting your ambitions over high,” he said.
“You need not worry about your precious Silmaril. Morgoth possesses them all and will always possess them! Death shall come to me easily enough. You will not need to hunt for me. I am a hunted man already.”
Celegorm stared at him and did not speak.
Beren cursed and shouted, “Let go of me!”
Celegorm punched Beren in the stomach so that he sank to the floor, gasping for air.
“A reminder: Touch the Silmarils, and you shall fall under the curse of Fëanor. Then we shall acknowledge our oath and hunt you down, and your descendants that come after. Come Hell or high waters, we shall find you and kill you.”
Celegorm sheathed his sword and walked away. Curufin spat at Beren and followed after his brother.
Beren pulled himself up slowly and lifted up his shirt and studied his back in the mirror of his room. His back had been bruised where Celegorm had driven him against the stone walls, and his lip was bleeding. He sighed and shook his head.
“Beren, Beren, Beren,” he said to his reflection. “You must have gone mad years ago. You have made yourself enemies on all sides and are about to challenge the forces of eternal darkness. Things will only be worse for you.”
At that moment, Arminas and Gelmir walked into his room, both looking uncertain and somber.
“We cannot come with you on the Quest, so you must pardon us, lord. We have a mind to stay here and keep an eye on Celegorm and his brother. We will not allow him to purloin the throne.”
“I would not have allowed either of you to come anyway. You are too dear to me,” Beren answered, but of Celegorm's attack on him, he kept to himself. “I have a much more urgent errand for you.”
“Anything, my lord.”
“I would like you to also keep an eye on Tinúviel.”
“Tinúviel?”
“Oh, pardon me. I call Lúthien that.”
“We shall do all that you ask of us, lord,” Arminas and Gelmir said in unison, and then the two Elves laughed, for they understood what the name meant and knew also what Beren said by it.
“Arminas, Gelmir? Would you do me one other favor?”
“Name it, and we shall obey.”
“Deliver my messages to Tinúviel.”
“Are you writing one now?” Gelmir asked, grinning.
“Yes.”
Arminas peered over Beren's shoulder and read a few of his words. Beren could feel his eyes on the letter and hastily covered his words with his hand and gave the elf a piercing glance.
“Forgive me, Beren. My eyes wandered,” Arminas said, but then he added suddenly, “When you write to her, you write naught but encouraging words. Do you believe in what you are saying at all?”
Beren hesitated and then answered, “No. I do not believe I shall ever win a Silmaril, and I regret bringing my own doom upon all those that I know and love.”
“You seek this Quest in false hope?”
Beren hung his head and continued writing. Then he handed them the letter.
“Will you deliver it?”
“We shall, Beren.”
“Well, I believe I can trust you to do so,” Beren said, smiling. “But I do not trust your prying eyes!”
The three of them laughed, and Arminas handed Gelmir the letter.
“You shall deliver it to Doriath. Then you must send her answers to me,” he told him and then turned to Beren.
“When was the last time we fenced together? You were only a teenage boy then. Am I correct?”
“I was near fifteen.”
“Well, let us see what new techniques you have learned since then, shall we?” said Gelmir, patting his sword.
“I will fight the both of you.”
“The both of us?”
Beren nodded and drew his sword, smiling.
“You were once my instructors in all that I knew. Now the student shall do the teaching.”
******
Beren did not remain miserable for long. Indeed, he was able to forget for a while his grief. Lúthien was writing to him. He wanted to keep the letters, but he had to burn them for her safety. She told him that she was burning them as soon as she had read them. The intimacy of letters was well, and he was glad for them.
One day, when he was writing to Lúthien, he noticed that an Elf was standing next to him reading as he wrote. He was tall as an Elvin-lord, and he had brown Elvin-locks and walnut eyes.
Beren grew angry and stuffed what he had written away. Then he turned to the Elf and opened his mouth to speak.
“I am sorry,” the Elf stopped him, knowing his danger. “I have a wife, and what you are writing warms my heart. I may not see her again, after all. My father fought in the Second Battle, and when he was killed, my mother pined for him and died so the keepers of the House of Play raised me. The same might happen to my young son when I set out. I am setting out on the Quest with you, you know.”
“You are Edrahil?”
“Yes.”
Beren sat down and beckoned for him to sit down with him.
“What did you say to her?”
“I told her that I would stand by my king until the bitter end. Tell me, who is Tinúviel?”
“Lúthien.”
Edrahil gasped at that name and gave Beren a disbelieving look. Then he laughed, “You poor fool! You fell in love with the wrong girl! And she, I am afraid, is not your type. You poor wretch! Let me guess. King Thingol set you upon this task to prove yourself worthy of his daughter?”
Beren nodded, and Edrahil laughed again, “You poor fool!”
“Do not mock me!”
“I am sorry! I am not mocking you; it is just that I do pity you. When you fall in love, you take such chances.”
Beren started. These words were much like Gorlim’s. He was thereafter seen often with Edrahil. They could be seen talking together. Edrahil introduced him to his wife, a beautiful Elvin-lady, and their son, still a boy. There was much friendship between them indeed
“You should not leave her,” Beren said to him suddenly one day. “Go home, Edrahil. Go home to your family. This is my Quest, and I may choose my allies. Go home!”
“But you cannot choose who is loyal to your king.”
“I wish I could.”
******
The weeks passed from summer to the fading time, and Beren was forced to write his last letter to Lúthien. He enclosed the message with love and gave the letter straightway to Arminas, for Gelmir had left for Doriath long before, and in return, Arminas laid Lúthien’s last answer in his hand.
“Did she send no word to me?” his voice was thick.
Arminas shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend,” he replied gently. “But she asked many questions about your activities, and I told her what I was able, that you were well and prospering in Finrod’s service.”
“How then did she look?” Beren almost pleaded. “I must know!”
“You ask the wrong person for such details,” he thought for a moment as though trying to picture her in his mind’s eye, and then continued, “She wore her familiar blue. Her dark hair was loose and shone like the moon, and she looked very fair, but in her eyes there was a sadness.”
“Your words are but little comfort to me,” the young man answered and looked away. “But there. I do not know what more I should expect.”
He fell silent and Arminas watched his face but said nothing.
“Thank you,” Beren said after a long pause, “But once your messengers take this letter to Doriath, they may remain there.”
“Aye, Master,” the Elf answered. “Safe journey.”
“Pardon me?”
“You are leaving upon the Quest in the morning, are you not?”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
Arminas took him by the shoulder. “I mean what I say! Safe journey, and may Elbereth protect you! It shall be a lonely road, Beren, and I do not feel that your friends will be with you for long. You do not have Lúthien, and all you have is your faith. Do not waver in your faith for an instant, my friend! That is all the advice that I can find to give you. Now go! I give you my love and my prayers upon your leaving, for I will not be there to see you off. I have said farewell, and I could not bear to do so again. Farewell, and I say again, may Elbereth protect you!”
Beren embraced him.
“Thank you, my teacher, my friend,” he said.
“Farewell. Sometimes, I rue greatly that I could not say farewell to your father.”
“He rests in peace, so fear not,” Beren answered.
Arminas closed the door slowly behind him.
Beren turned away and sat down in the nearest chair and opened the sealed letter:

My beloved,

You are hiding something from me. Do not wonder! You know what I am, and I am not pleased. Your last message was so curt and implausible that I saw through it immediately. You are wretched, and I feel that I am the cause. You are dreading the beginning of the Quest, and you still have not told me when it is to begin. I must know so that I will not have to worry anymore, or at least until the day comes. You have no hope. If you have no hope, you cannot expect to succeed.
If you yearn for me so, than why did you leave me behind? You have abandoned me, and I can never forgive you for such a cruel deed. Since you were torn from my arms, I have worn the Ring of Barahir about my neck. I hope that you do not mind or King Finrod. It is all well that Finrod has agreed to aid you, but I feel terrible for him. I know little of him, but I did meet him once when I was young, and I know by tales and tidings that he is said to be the greatest among the kings of the Eldar. I believe that it is truly so. You need all the aid you can find, and I can provide you with an ally. That ally is I.
Please reconsider this! I beg you to reconsider! My Father cannot keep us apart like this, and what if you do fail and are made into a martyr? Please, my love. Your messenger, Gelmir, I believe is his name, you might have him ‘kidnap’ me per say. If not, I will find you!

My love for you shall endure for all time, longer than forever, longer than eternity, and by the love of Ilúvatar, may He reunite us again somehow. Each night that I live I shall look upon the stars and think of you and send my thought hither, for there my heart dwells until we meet again. I shall pray for you, as always.

Love, Tinúviel

Beren folded the letter in his hands and kissed it. Then he raised it to the flame of his candle and burnt it. He watched it curl and flame at the corners and until it was gone with the smell of incense.
Her words had pierced into his soul. Lúthien could read his heart, and what she said was true. Her words were both a comfort and a pain to him, and he wrote his reply immediately and caught the messenger before he had left upon his horse.
“Give me the letter you have,” he said.
The Elf gave him the letter, and Beren tore it to pieces and handed the messenger his recent letter.
“Your relationship did not last long,” the messenger said.
“No,” Beren answered firmly. “Our love shall endure forever, but I must say farewell to her.”
“You do mean to set out on the Quest then?”
“Of course.”
“The people are saying that you are daft, Master.”
Beren laughed, “I do not blame them.”
The messenger grinned and hid away the letter. Then he saluted and bolted. Beren awoke the next day feeling refreshed and Edrahil came to greet him.
“So, you are still here? It is a fine day, is it not, Edrahil,” Beren said.
“Indeed it is,” was all Edrahil would say.
The rest of the company was waiting for him before the gates, and there was a crowd there. Some were singing farewell, others giving their blessings, and many others were laughing and scoffing Beren as he passed by, whistling a tune. Edrahil halted and stared at him.
Among the crowd were two Elves, and Beren recognized them as Celegorm and Curufin. He called to the two imposing princes and they halted, scowling.
“Good day to you, my good friends,” Beren said to them. “Where might you be going? I can see that you have weapons with you and hunting dogs. You are going hunting on the outskirts of Doriath I have heard. Why hunt wolves when your King may need you here?”
Celegorm glared at him, saying, “The Sons of Fëanor serve no one. The only thing that binds us is our oath.”
And then there stepped before Beren a great hound. He was of unusual size, and he had a silver coat. He whimpered and stared up at Beren. Beren stooped to pet him, and the hound growled in warning so that Beren hesitated. Celegorm laughed, for Beren did not know it, but this was Huan the hound of Valinor.
“Huan is very faithful to me and is a good judge of character,” he said. “Nor does he like Men very much.”
“Is that so? I have always seemed to get along better with animals than Elves or Men,” Beren said and then spoke to the hound. “Your master is not worth serving.”
The hound looked up at Beren curiously, and he patted him. Miraculously, the ferocious animal did not bite or growl. Celegorm called to the hound in Quenya, and Huan hesitated, staring at Beren. When Celegorm raised his voice a little, he turned, casting one last thoughtful glance at Beren, then trotted away.
The brothers turned away from him, and Beren said, “Are you not going to wish your king a safe journey? Oh, I forgot. You are oath breakers. It is likely that you shall one day break your principal oath.”
Celegorm let out a strangled cry and sprang forward so that he was inches from Beren’s face.
“Remember my warning,” he whispered.
“Oh, I tell you one thing,” Beren said remotely, “I never forget threats made to me.”
Celegorm laughed and climbed upon his horse and commanded him forward.
“Safe journey to you!” Beren called over his shoulder.
Finrod stepped beside Beren on his horse, a great white steed.
“Good‘en,” he said cheerfully, but he looked downcast and troubled.
“Good‘en,” Beren answered.
“You seem merry this morning.”
“I want this to be over with as soon as can be,” Beren answered.
“This cheerfulness will diminish soon,” Finrod said, shaking his head, “but I will be more than happy to curse Morgoth.”
“I will do more than curse him,” Beren said bitterly.
“Do you fear him at all?”
“Not in the least. I fear Ilúvatar, not Morgoth.”
“I see. Many things shall change, Beren.”
Finrod realized that Beren had closed his eyes and was very still. He was afraid that he had fallen asleep, but when he called for him, he opened his eyes.
“Are you still drowsy? We could give you an Elf-shot-“
”I was listening to the song of Yavanna,” Beren answered. “We shall be upon nature’s road for a while, so I thought I might get in tune with her. Perhaps she shall be kindly to us.”
“The song of Yavanna?”
Beren laughed and answered, “It is something Tinúviel, I mean, Lúthien, taught me. If you have the ears to listen, when you are at peace of mind, you will hear the drum of the song. Every other sound are tributes to the drum.”
“And the drum must be your heartbeat, I see.”
“Absolutely, Finrod,” Beren laughed again.
“Come!” Finrod called to the company. “Let us hear the song of Yavanna!”
They were all silent, and soon, the drum was heard, and birds sang in the trees, and the leaves fluttered in the wind. Water was falling somewhere, and still, the drum beat on in the same rhythm, and then, Beren half fancied that he heard a voice singing, Tinúviel’s voice, and he was indeed at peace again.
Finrod then made a speech to the faithful, “So we begin the Quest, listening for the voices of Ilúvatar and his order of the Valar. You must have faith in them, as you no doubt have faith in me. I wish to give my thanks to you all before we leave. You have proven to be the most courageous, the most foolish, and the most loyal among all my counsel, among all my people. This Quest was appointed in the hope that we would not succeed, and indeed, there is little chance that we might do so. But we are soldiers of honor. I give you my most humble salute. May the stars shine upon you!”
******
Thus twelve companions ventured from the city of Nargothrond and went north, turning their silent, secret way and vanishing into the gray sky morning. No trumpet sounded, no voices sang. They were robed in mail of cunning rings of black with helms of gray and cloaks to protect them from rain and weather. They journeyed Narog’s course and followed it until they found his source, the flickering falls that came down from Ivrin. They watched and waited many nights, and Beren could not sleep. He came and sat beside Edrahil.
“I am much accustomed to traveling,” he said. “But still I cannot sleep.”
“Really? Then you may take the watch,” the Elf answered, grinning, “and I shall sleep!”
Then they heard a murmur from afar, a croaking laughter. It became louder, and then they heard the drumming of hideous stamping feet and could see many lamps of red swinging and glistening on spear and scimitar.
“Orcs!” Beren said in a harsh whisper. “Wake the others!”
Edrahil went to obey and shake them all awake, but there was no need. They had all been startled awake and hid themselves among the brack and the undergrowth. Even an old man could hear the clamor that the Orcs were making. The Orcs were never very subtle.
Edrahil was night-sighted, so he crept forth and watched a band of Orcs pass by. Their voices became distant and then Beren beckoned to the others to follow.
“Did you count how many there were?” he asked Edrahil.
“No. I could not get close enough.”
“We must creep softly,” Beren said. “I may go now as light-footed as you, my friends. I have learned through years of painful experience to be wary, and Tinúviel taught me to dance soundlessly. We will all be like foxes stealing through the shadows in search of prey.”
“You mean to follow them?” Finrod was puzzled.
“Of course. I have a plan.”
When they questioned him about his plan, he only motioned for silence and continued forward. They followed the Orcs’ voices until they reached their camp, lit by flickering fire and lamp. Edrahil once again peered with his elvish eyes and counted thirty Orcs sitting in the red flare of burning wood.
“What now?” he asked.
“I believe I know what Beren has planned,” Finrod said with a smile. “A dark design and one without certainty, but there is none better!”
Without a sound they stood silent round the Orcs, away from the glow of the fire, each in the shadow of a tree. Each slowly, secretly, bent his bow and drew the string. Suddenly their bows sang as one, and Finrod let out a cry. Twelve Orcs fell and died with a dart in their throat. Then Beren and Finrod and the ten faithful Elvin-lords drew their swords and struck as swift as they could. The Orcs shrieked and yelled and then took up their scimitars and answered, but they were only scouts and no match for King Finrod, his best warriors, and Beren son of Barahir. Some looked upon Beren’s face, grim and vengeful in the firelight and let out cries of terror.
“It is Beren!” they cried in horrified recognition. “Beren son of Barahir, whom we slew! Run! Run for your lives! If you knew half the tales that I have heard of him and what he does to our kind, then you would run as though the Master himself were upon you!”
But none of those Orcs were left alive. Beren had faced many more than thirty Orcs at once, and the Elves wore their dark chain mail of Noldoli craft. The battle was swiftly over.
“Well done,” Finrod said. “But we must not linger here. Never is so small a band of Orcs alone. We must bear their gear and become Orcs.”
“Become Orcs!” the Elvin-lords groaned. “We will obey your every command, my lord, but this is a hard one to swallow!”
“I shall dispose of the bodies,” Beren said darkly. “There is a pit nearby.”
“I would not give the pleasure to anyone else,” Finrod answered.
Beren dragged the corpses, two at a time, to the pit. He tore away their armor and the rest of their gear and tossed them aside. Once all were piled, he made a fire with little smoke. He had learned how to make a fire without discernable smoke, a skill that took many failed trials to learn. Thankfully, the environment was just right for the task. Then he returned to King Finrod. He had heaped the gear together and was handing them out to his comrades.
“Aye Elbereth, they reek!” Edrahil complained.
“You must bear the smell. I know it is much to ask, but we can go no further without such disguise.”
They clad themselves with the poisoned spears, the bows of horn, and the crooked swords, loathing the thought of bearing Angband’s raiment. They smeared their hands and faces with pigments, and then Finrod added several touches so that their ears grew hideous, and their mouths became agape and their teeth became like fangs. Then they hid their fair Noldoli garments and followed Finrod as he went northward.
Beren thought he was walking within a nightmare. He was clothed in the garb of his enemies. He had killed hundreds of Orcs. He had never imagined becoming one. He gazed into the waters nearby and did not recognize himself. Finrod had done well.
They met Orcs upon their road, but they did not stop the false company, for Beren and the Elves were in all ways like Orcs. The passing company of Orcs hailed them in greeting and did no more so that they grew more bold and took heart as the long miles rolled past.
“Do you really believe we can slip into Angband like this?” Edrahil asked Beren. “It seems much too easy.”
“Sooner or later our disguises shall fail,” he answered. “So far, they have served us well.”
“Lower your voices!” Finrod said in his false voice. “You are Orcs!”
“Do not be afraid to curse and spit,” Beren added. “And make noise. If we try to pass through silently, they will find that suspicious. Orcs make noise wherever they go. They do not know the meaning of the words silent or subtle.”
They came beyond Beleriand and found the young waters of Sirion. There stood alone an isled hill amid the valley. Around its feet the river bent and had scooped a cave. It had once been an Elvin watchtower, Finrod’s own. It was strong and still was fair, but now its purpose had been converted to malicious use, and beyond the valley were fields of wrack, dusty dunes, the desert wide, and further the brooding cloud that hung and lowered on Thangorodrim’s thunderous towers.
This was now the abode of Sauron, mightiest of the servants of Morgoth and the most deadly. He watched with sleepless eyes of flame. From the North there was no other way for Beren and company save east, which was a direction they could not take. The Sons of Fëanor watched that way, and they would allow none, especially not the company of Beren and one of the sons of Finarfin, to tread their lands. Sauron was Master of Wolves, whose shivering howl forever echoed in the hills and foul enchantments he wove and wielded. The necromancer held his hosts of phantoms and wandering ghosts and monsters thronged about him, working his bidding; the werewolves of Wizard’s Isle.
Once they were almost past the tower, a group of Orcs approached. They did not hail them, these Orcs were more clever than the others they encountered.
“What are you doing here?” they demanded in the Orc-tongue. “It is not your job to patrol this area. That was commanded of us!”
“What the blazes are you talking about?” Beren replied quickly since the others hesitated, unsure how to reply. “Have they mixed up the bloody watches again? That is just like the higher ups in the chain of command to booger things up and make us work it out for them! Fine! We shall be on our way and count ourselves lucky since there’s less work for us now, though likely a lickin’ for you.”
“Who says it shall mean a lickin’ for us?” the Orc growled and added what must have been a nasty word.
Beren replied with a string of words the others did not understand and which angered the Orcs to the point that they clutched their spears and notched their ugly arrows and the company was certain they were about to be slaughtered. But then they laughed uncomfortably and lowered their weapons. Beren grinned with triumph. He motioned for the company to continue on and to ignore the Orcs. Though he did not show it, he half expected a dart in his back the moment he turned away. The Orcs stood at their post and glared after them, puzzled, and yet they did nothing.
Once they were out of sight, the company all burst out laughing.
“Impressive, Beren,” they exclaimed. “Where did you learn to speak Orcish?”
“I suppose four years in the Wild hunting and being pursued by them has had more of an affect upon me that I ever realized,” he laughed along with them. “Never thought such knowledge would be useful.”
“What else can you say in Orcish?”
“Oh, only the very basics. The first words I learned were curse words. It was Orc insults you heard me say last. I have found that if you use the right combination of insults, Orcs will either kill their own kind or laugh at them and offer them brothership. I knew not what else to do. Would you like to learn some Orc insults?”
“Teach us! Teach us!”
He revealed them all, and there was quite an extensive list. It was amusing to hear Orcish from the lips of high elves, especially vulgar words. Finrod found that he liked them all and decided that once the quest was all over he would use them to describe Celegorm and Curufin to their faces. He never knew there were twenty different words for traitor in Orcish.
“Their expressions when you told them that last bit just about made me snort,” Edrahil admitted. “But I bit my tongue. I feared exposing us.”
“It was quite hard to keep a straight face.”
“I cannot wait to get out of these clothes!”
But even as they laughed and congratulated each other on their success, the Orcs reported their encounter to Sauron immediately, fearing that there had been some sort of mix up and that they would be blamed. Sauron almost sent them away, but he knew Orcs were untrustworthy, especially the more clever kind that did not have the usual breeding. He could not risk them turning upon one another.
“They told us we were in the wrong place, then took off!”
“What were their orders?” Sauron asked in his silent but deadly voice.
“They didn’t say exactly,” the Orcs regretted not asking more questions.
“Which regiment was it?”
And so Sauron knew of their coming, and though beneath the eaves they crept, he saw them. Suspicion grew in him and the wolves were roused.
“Go! Fetch me those sneaking Orcs!” he commanded. “They go as if in dread and do not come to me as all Orcs are commanded to bring me news of all their deeds.”
The wolves obeyed, and they came at Beren’s company and shouted at them in the dark.
“Halt! Sauron of the Isle has summoned you! Follow us!”
Beren drew his scimitar to fight, but Finrod stayed him.
“We may still have a chance,” he said. “Let me be your spokesman if we are indeed revealed.”
“We have been caught! All is lost!”
“Yes. All is lost. This is a quest for death, Beren. You said so yourself, but not yet. Death is not yet certain.”
They were brought across the stony bridge and into that evil place to the throne, fashioned of blood-darkened stone. Beren knew that Sauron had deceived and murdered Gorlim and scowled at him. He did not fear him. He hated him.
“Where have you been?” Sauron spoke. “What have you seen?”
“Tears and distress, fire blowing and blood flowing. These we have seen, there have we been. We slew thirty Elves and threw their bodies into a dark pit. The ravens sit and the owls cry there,” Beren answered. “You may search the land and find the burnt and defiled bodies of these Elves yourself.”
“Come, tell me the truth, Morgoth’s thralls! What befalls in Elfinesse? What of Nargothrond? Who reigns there? Did you come there?”
“We came only to its borders. There reigns King Finrod the fell,” Beren blurted out.
“Then have you not heard that he is gone and that the aspirant Prince Celegorm sits upon his throne?” Sauron grinned.
“That is not true! You play us false!” Finrod said in outrage at the thought of Celegorm usurping his throne. “If the ancient king has vanished, then Orodreth rules in Nargothrond!”
“Your ears are rather sharp. You have heard much and yet have not even entered the realm’s borders? What are your names? Who is your captain? You have not named him yet.”
“Nereb and Dungalef are our names, and with us are ten warriors,” Beren spoke. “We dwell in the dens under the mountains. Over the waste we marched upon an errand of need and haste. Boldog the captain awaits us.”
“Boldog, I heard, was lately slain, warring on the borders of Robber Thingol and his outlaw folk in Doriath. Have you not heard of his daughter, that pretty fay of the name Lúthien?”
At that name, Beren started, but words failed him and he faltered, and neither Finrod nor the others spoke. Sauron, noticing their sudden silence and pricked ears, continued.
“Morgoth has heard rumor of her beauty. They say that her body is white and fair, the fairest in Beleriand, and he has become obsessed with the thought of capturing her and judging himself if it is truly so. I do not understand it myself, but he sent Boldog and a large battalion of Orcs to snatch her from the Caves of Menegroth, but the whole company was annihilated. The Girdle of Melian is guarded by more than just witchery. It is apparent that the Sindar have allies we have long overlooked. Those that they call ‘the Green and Brown Elves’ guard the passes. We once thought that people had perished with their king in the First Battle. It seems to me a strange thing that you all were not there. You are either cowards that turned tail and abandoned your posts, or you are liars. Either is a traitorous crime! The many troops we lost can easily be replaced, and now we know more than ever of that elusive people, knowledge that shall greatly avail us in the future. Next time we send to snatch maidens from caves, we shall succeed.”
Beren shuddered, and a light shone in his eyes.
Sauron must have caught the look, for he said, “Nereb! Nereb, why do you not laugh to think of your master crushing a maiden in his hoard?”
“I do not laugh because that shall never be,” Beren answered unwisely. “If Boldog was slain, then no force that you send will succeed in capturing the maiden of whom you speak. Those in Doriath would gladly give their lives for her. It seems to me that you have only wasted your time.”
“Whom do you serve?” Sauron demanded. “Who is the maker of mightiest work? Who is the king of earthly kings, the greatest giver of gold and jewels? Who is the master of the wide earth? Who despoiled the greedy Gods of their happiness? Repeat your vows, Orcs of Bauglir! Death to light, to law, to love! Cursed be moon and stars! May darkness everlasting old drown Manwë, Varda, and the sun herself! May all in hatred be begun and all in evil be ended in the moaning endless Sea!”
But no true Man or Elf would ever speak such blasphemy and Beren said, “Who is Sauron to hinder us? We do not serve Sauron, nor do we owe him anything, and now we are leaving!”
Sauron laughed and answered, “Patience! You shall not abide here for long. But first a song I will sing to you.”
Then his flaming eyes bent upon them and darkness fell around them. They could see only his eyes, and their senses dimmed. He chanted a song of wizardry, of piercing, opening, of treachery, revealing, uncovering, and of betraying. But though Finrod swayed, he sang in answer a song of staying, resisting, battling, of secrets kept, strength like a tower and trust unbroken, of freedom, escape; of changing and of shifting shape, of snares eluded, broken traps, the prison opening, the chain that snaps.
Backwards and forwards swayed their song. It sounded a mess. Sauron chanted in a flat, quiet voice. Finrod sang with the voice of the Eldar, singing loudly and defiantly. The chanting swelled, but Finrod still fought. Beren added the voice of Mankind, and then Edrahil and the others joined in chorus. Softly in the gloom they heard the birds singing afar in Nargothrond, the sighing of the Sea beyond and the waves on sand. But the darkness grew, and Finrod became desperate. His voice rang out now shrill and frail of Valinor. They were all losing their voices, but not the Dread Servant. His chanting became more insistent and hastened. Sauron caught up Finrod’s words and twisted his song, for he sang of the red blood flowing beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew the Teleri, and stole their white ships with their white sails.
And Finrod fell before the throne.
The spell was released, and Beren and his companions suddenly were revealed. Then Sauron laughed and they were thrown into a pit where they lay in despair, forgotten for a time. Finrod drew away from the others and curled into a ball of anguish. Beren came and kneeled beside him.
“My lord,” he said. “My lord, you did not fail. He does not know yet who we are or what we plan to do.”
“Yes, my lord,” Edrahil said in accord. “We could-“
Suddenly, his voice faltered in mid-sentence. They heard him cry out, a terrible snarl in the dark, and then there was silence again.
“Edrahil!” they all called for him. “Edrahil!”
But there was no answer.
“Where has he gone?” Beren cried.
“Look!”
Beren leaned down and saw blood spilt where Edrahil had last stood. Then he let out a cry.
“Sauron!” he said. “What do you want?”
“Each of you tell me your names and why you are here,” answered an Orc. “That is unless you wish to die. All of you. Your friend has been mauled by one of our wolves. You will all suffer the same fate until someone speaks.”
But even after the Orc had spoken and announced their doom, Finrod would reveal nothing, and none of the company would betray him.