A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 5- Lúthien

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Many things went through Lúthien’s mind as she was once again called to the gates, and as she heard the shouts of ‘The King! The King returns!’ when she reached them. At first there was relief, blissful, all-consuming relief, that Finrod had made it home alive, and be it quite badly wounded. She had deeply feared that he might indeed be dead ever since Orodreth had come seeking refuge in Nargothrond, and brought the horrid news about  with him.

Her relief, however, did not last long, and was replaced instead by pain- for one look into Finrod’s face sufficed to tell her that despite his best efforts, there had been no saving Aegnor or Angrod. She watched with horrible grief in her heart as Finrod embraced Orodreth, comforting his little brother despite so clearly being in desperate need of comfort himself. She knew better than to approach Finrod just now, though, knowing that he could not admit to his despair just yet, not while he still held a sobbing Orodreth, not while he still stood before his people as king. She busied herself instead with dispersing the crowd by giving them tasks to do, order them to clean and store the weapons and armours, to get the king’s men food and clean clothes and care for their wounds where it was needed.

It was only when the crowd had finally cleared that she did realise that Finrod was not indeed alone, and another emotion slunk into her heart- amused exasperation.

So they had apparently got themselves landed with the next mortal now. Well, Lúthien thought, it had truly always only been a matter of time after Bëor’s death, before Finrod  persuaded the next poor mortal to live with him in Nargothrond. For the moment, however, Lúthien did not pay much attention to the Man, apart from assessing that he seemed largely unhurt. Finrod, on the other hand, looked in danger of collapsing where he stood, and sure enough, when he and what remained of his men moved away from the entrance at last, the king swayed dangerously. Lúthien only just managed to reach him in time to hinder his fall.

“M’alright” Finrod mumbled “Only tired.”

Lúthien snorted in disgust.

“Of course, lord.” she mocked, trying to ignore the mingled pain and amusement that welled up in her as she realised that she had just sounded exactly like her mother. “Off to the healers, cousin. Now!”

It made her feel rather pleased with herself to see him comply immediately. King he might be, but he would still always listen to her, and there was no denying that bossing her little cousins around was a guilty pleasure of hers. Needless to say, her bossed-around little cousin being king added hugely to that satisfaction.

It was when everyone was gone from the entrance hall and the gates were again firmly closed, and Lúthien just about to go and see how the wounded were doing, that she noticed that the Man was still standing where he had been left, looking very lost indeed. Pity stirred within Lúthien’s heart. She wondered how she might feel if she were lead by Men into a kingdom of Men, and then left alone there. Also, the mortal looked still very young (if indeed she could be trusted to judge that correctly), which must only add to his being completely overwhelmed.

“Well met!” she therefore said gently.

Being suddenly spoken to still startled him, making his head jerk upwards in fright. As his gaze fell upon her, however, his eyes grew wide with wonder, and he hastily bowed.

“My apologies.” he said hastily in quite fluent Sindarin, “I did not know where to go.”

“Oh, please do not apologise. This is not how we usually greet our guests here at Nargothrond, so it really falls upon me to beg your pardon. I am Lúthien, kinswoman of the King and second in command in his absence, and I welcome you to my cousin’s city.”

The Man thanked her shyly, and tentatively followed her wordless invitation to fall into step with her. They walked silently for a while, lost for anything to talk about, until Lúthien’s companion stumbled, and she reached out automatically to help him regain his balance. Only then did she realise how starved he looked, and that he was by no means less exhausted than Finrod, albeit being outwardly unhurt. He mumbled a thanks as he steadied himself, valiantly trying to appear better off than he really was.

Clearly, he and Finrod have a thing or two in common. No wonder Finrod has taken a liking to the boy, Lúthien thought wryly, though she did not voice it aloud, instead asking gently: 
“What is your name? I was about to tell you to rest a little ere we walk on, then realised that I had no idea of how to address you.”

“Beren. Barahir my father is a friend of King Felagund.”

Lúthien smiled, and waited patiently until Beren had recovered slightly, then lead him on to the Halls of Healing, as they were called in Nargothrond. There her attention momentarily shifted to Finrod, who sat on a bed by the entrance, stripped of all his clothes, and was being washed carefully by the healers. Lúthien winced. Her cousin’s entire body was covered in wounds and bruises, and he had lost a lot of weight, so that his bones now stood out sharply under his skin. Gently, Lúthien dismissed the healers and took over the cloth and bowl of water to tend to the king herself, knowing how much he would prefer it this way. And indeed Finrod managed a grateful smile before he closed his eyes again with an exhausted sigh and leaned his head against Lúthien’s side. She kept washing blood and dirt off his back and had just come to presume that he had indeed been overcome by his exhaustion and fallen asleep, when a sob escaped his throat, shaking his beaten body violently. Lúthien would have liked to wrap her arms around him tightly, but did not dare to hold him close lest she should hurt him even more, so she contented herself with gently stroking his hair and mumbling reassurances, hoping that this would be enough.

“My brothers…” he whispered between gasps “My little brothers.”

Lúthien felt her heart clench within her chest. Aegnor and Angrod, both fierce warriors and keen adventurers, who had so rejoiced in roaming the harsh woods of Dorthonion, who had been as golden and kind as Finrod- how could they now lie dead, burned to a charred heap of bones, if as much was even left of them? She hoped with all her might that they had found their deaths before the fire had come, by a swift orc-arrow or cleanly swiped sword-stroke.

“I know.” was all she managed to say, her throat as tight as her chest “Though the gladder I am to have you back alive, and Orodreth with his family. Do you know aught of Galadriel and Celeborn?”

Finrod shook his head.

“No. But the flames did not reach the Falas as far as I know. They should be alright. Eldalótë is among the wounded, though, and the healers do not have much hope. She does not know yet that Angrod is… gone, and I honestly wonder whether or not to keep her in the dark whilst her condition is still so very critical.”

“Tell her!” Lúthien said firmly “There is nothing more torturous than not knowing.”

“I fear that she will follow him if she learns so soon.”

“That is out of our hands, Finrod. But imagine the pain of fighting because you do not want to leave your spouse, only to later learn that they are dead? I would wish that to no-one, even less to someone as beloved as Eldalótë. If that makes her give up, then we owe it to her to let her go in peace, to be with Angrod once more.”

Finrod pondered those words for a while, then nodded gravely.

“You are right, of course. I shall tell her, as soon as she wakes. If she wakes, that is. But oh, I had so hoped not to repeat that experience. Telling Andreth was terrible enough.”

“Whom?”

“Did you not know? She is the mortal woman Aegnor fell in love with. Their marriage was hindered by the war, and perhaps also by the knowledge that she must die in the end, but oh, oh I wished Aegnor had not been so rule-abiding and just wed her. They could have had merry years together and he still would have g…gone first.”

“She would not have permitted that.” Beren interjected, making both Lúthien and Finrod jump.

Clearly Beren, who was being treated close by, had been listening in on their conversation. Lúthien smiled to herself. Bold he was, yes, impertinent perhaps, but she found that rather endeared the young mortal to her.

“Andreth is my father’s aunt.” he continued to explain to Lúthien. “She is a wise-woman of our people, and kind, but also proud and headstrong. She would not have permitted her ever-young elven-prince to see her age and wither.”

Finrod nodded sadly.

“Verily. And yet she shed the tears of a widow when I bore her the news of Aegnor’s death.”

Pity filled Lúthien. How cruel to think that something as beautiful and pure as true love could become something so terribly painful. Did they not all suffer enough whilst knowing that they would one day be reunited with their fallen kin? How terribly must it hurt to know that death would sunder one from one’s spouse forever? She did not even want to imagine that.

Finrod, apparently trying to steer the conversation into less sorrowful waters, gently tucked her away from those sombre musings, saying:
“I see you have already made the acquaintance of Beren, Lúthien. I shall still introduce him to you in due manner. Lúthien, this is Beren. His father Barahir is the Lord of Ladros, though the war drove him from his land. He fought bravely with what was left of Aegnor and Angrod’s forces, and saved me from the greatest peril at the Fen of Serech. He asked me to take Beren with me when I bade him name a favour to ask of me in return, and I did so gladly.”

Lúthien could not help but grin.

That must surely have been such a heavy burden for you, to take in yet another human, she thought sarcastically, remembering well the day that Finrod had brought Bëor to Nargothrond.

Finrod was simply fascinated with Men and had been so ever since he had first discovered them, and had wandered among them until the Bragollach had laid their settlements and his lands alike in ashes. She did not doubt, however, that Finrod would have granted his saviour any wish, even if it had been something that brought him less joy.

“Beren, this is Lúthien of Eglador, my mother’s cousin. She is the one who so meticulously keeps Nargothrond safe whenever I am abroad.”

“Oh, aren’t you sweet tonight, little cousin? Such a friendly way of saying that I am the one who secretly runs your kingdom.”

All three of them laughed, which was a huge relief, then Lúthien, deciding that it was high time for Finrod to rest, gently nudged him into lying down and covered him in a blanket. Not long thereafter, the king had fallen soundly asleep.

When Lúthien made her way back to her own chambers a little later, she found herself again walking beside Beren, whose wounds were deemed minor enough to heal on their own after being cleaned and treated. Someone therefore needed to show him to the rooms that Finrod had had made ready for him, and Lúthien had gladly volunteered.

“Forgive me, lady, if I ask…” Beren said after a while “…but you seem so different from Finrod and his kinsmen. Why is that?”

Lúthien grinned. Once again, Beren displayed a frankness that bordered on impertinence, but also again, Lúthien found that she did not mind that it in the slightest.

“You are of a sharp mind, it seems. Indeed I am different. I have not seen Valinor, whence the Noldor came, but was born and raised here in Beleriand.”

“Yet you seem more… there is a light within your eyes that is not in the others’, bright though they be. I have met those whom the Noldor call the Moriquendi, those who were born in Middle-Earth. You are nothing like them, either.” Beren went on eagerly, though he blushed violently as he spoke.

That, and the fact that he had evidently settled on mentioning the least strange thing he had noticed about her, made her grin even more broadly.

“You might have said what is on your mind and called me fey, Beren, I would not have been offended. For indeed you are right, I am nothing like my kin who never saw the light. I once was the Princess of Eglador, an ancient elvish realm that perished before the first dawn. And you perceive me as different because I am, well, strictly speaking not a real elf. Or not only an elf. However one wants to put it.”

“What…”

“You see, my mother is a being of spirit that was with the One ere the world was wrought. She chose to dwell here in Ennor rather than with her kin in the West, and bound herself in an elvish form out of love for my elven father, and became his queen, and later bore me.”

Beren gaped at her for a moment.

“What happened to them? Your parents?”

Lúthien shook her head, but then realised that she had the strange desire to tell Beren, feeling deep down that he would understand.

“My father was captured and tortured to death by the Enemy. It broke my mother’s heart when she learned of it, and she shed her body and fled West, to be as close to him as she could be.”

“Why did you not go with her?”

“I don’t think I could have done that- there is no crossing the sea for elvenkind, and I am an incarnate being, I cannot live without my physical body. Naneth can, though knowing her, I am quite sure she took on her elvish form again the moment she reached Aman. But even if I could have gone with her, I would not have wanted to. I have a bone to pick left with Morgoth!”

Beren nodded fervently.

“I have, too. When you go to pick that bone, will you allow me to accompany you?”

Lúthien tilted her head. This was valour she had never expected, but she felt its sincerity, and respect and admiration for Beren grew in her heart.

“If you will it, who am I to hinder you?”

They smiled at each other for a while, then Lúthien added:

“It is a great comfort to me to think that I shall not have to go on that errand alone.”