A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 7- Lúthien

One little explanation- I have made a little change to canon here and have Daeron be the one who came up with the name 'Tinúviel' for Lúthien. Just so you're not confused.

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Lúthien crouched low over Huan’s neck, feeling his long fur whip her face. She urged him on now that they were on their way back to Tol-in-Gauhroth rather than fleeing away from it, but despite that, and despite the fact that Huan once again allowed her to use him as a steed, resentment festered in her insides.

It was ungrateful of her, perhaps, given that Huan had without any doubt saved her from the knife-sharp fangs and claws of the wolves, but still she resented him for bearing her away from the island altogether, and -worst of all- for leaving Beren and Finrod behind. She had begged and pleaded with him to stop as soon as the howling of the wolves had grown distant enough to know they were not following, but to no avail. Huan had simply raced on, seemingly oblivious to his rider’s despair. Only when Lúthien had jumped off his back in full run and promptly tumbled down a thorny slope had he stopped, and though she had been prepared to snarl at her saviour even then, her anger had melted at the look he gave her. He had licked her wounds tenderly and nuzzled her side in a way that told her that he had only meant well.

That she had never doubted, anyway, not for a moment. It was his obvious assumption that she could not look after herself as well as the men could that so angered her. How could he, the Hound of Valinor, underestimate the blood of Melian? How could he think her inferior to an Elf and a Man? No, it was in truth Beren whom Huan should have borne to safety, Beren who was so fragile compared to her and Finrod, the flame of his mortal life so easily snuffed out. The mere thought made her chest go tight. She must, must reach them in time.

It felt to Lúthien as though a hundred years had passed since they had left Tol-in-Gauhroth, before the tower that Finrod himself had built finally loomed again out of the gathering darkness. Lúthien’s heart beat in her throat as she heard the wolves howl. Now that they were again where she had so longed to be, she realised with a sinking feeling in her stomach that she had no plan whatsoever of what to do now, how she might succeed in entering the fortress. And even if she did succeed, what would she find inside?

There was not much time to ponder this, for eyes glowed in the darkness the moment they set foot on the bridge, accompanied by deep, threatening growls, and only a heartbeat later the werewolves were once more upon them. Lúthien drew her knife, one of the few trinkets she had taken from Menegroth. A hunting-knife may not seem a dangerous weapon, but still Lúthien would not have chosen any other weapon. It was the knife Lord Oromë had once given to her father, back in the ancient days when he had taken him as ambassador to Aman. He had ever treasured that knife, so Lúthien had taken it with her when she had departed from her old home, and she was very glad of it just now. It felt friendly in her hand, which was a good thing, given that the werewolves’ attacks became fiercer by the moment.

She had to admit, though, that while her knife slit many a fell throat, it was Huan who did the main work. One after another, the wolves fell to his sharp teeth and mighty claws, and soon, the entire bridge was littered with their hideous bodies. But just as they thought they had the victory, there was a horrible swooshing sound overhead, and a shadow darkened the moon. Lúthien never saw the fell creature that seized her from behind, though the flapping of great leathery wings around her made her think of a giant bat. Not that it mattered what the creature looked like that had her in such a powerful grip- it only mattered that Lúthien could not shake it off.

Where is Huan when one needs him? Lúthien wondered wryly as she fought to free herself.

She knew the answer well enough- he was obviously fighting his own battles still, and after all, had she not just boasted that she could do all that very well by herself, and did not need the hound’s protection? Just now, however, she would not have complained about getting some help.
It proved easier than she had anticipated in the end, her knife finding the creature’s heart almost effortlessly. It crumbled, revealing itself to have roughly the shape and form of a woman, safe for her great black wings and the fangs that gleamed in her mouth instead of normal teeth. Lúthien wiped her knife with a snort of disgust. Whatever it had been, it was dead now and would cause them no more trouble… at least not immediately. No doubt that Morgoth would find a way to re-house his servants if they were only useful enough, but just for the moment she could forget about the winged creature and move on to tackling more pressing matters- like the figure that had just stepped out of the gates, for example.

Lúthien needed neither ask nor wonder who the newcomer was that strode almost lazily towards her and Huan, glaring at her with a piercing gaze- she knew him instantly. Unlike the mangled creature at her feet, he bore the shape of an elf, tall, slender and beautiful, with gleaming amber eyes and long hair that was almost colourless- or perhaps gleaming in many colours, depending on the light. Had his very aura not been so blatantly evil, she would have found him pleasant to look upon.

“So” Sauron said softly, his voice as fair as his face even as malice radiated from him like heat “My dear Melian’s whelp has decided to introduce herself at last. I admit I was very curious to meet you, especially after having had the pleasure of making your father’s acquaintance. You do not take after him much, do you? Safe perhaps in face. And you have his eyes. Anyway, I am pleased to meet you. I should only prefer you to not rob me of my lieutenant next time.”

Lúthien forced herself not to look away from Sauron’s burning gaze. She would not give him that satisfaction, even if her heart screamed at the implication of his words. Her mother might have regarded him as little more than an annoying cousin, but Lúthien had heard word about the deeds of Morgoth’s second-in-command, of whom many said that he was almost crueler than Morgoth himself, and the idea that he might have been the one responsible for her father’s torment was almost unbearable.

“She is not ‘your dear Melian’, Gorthaur!” she finally managed to spit back at him, deciding that spite was the best defence she had.

“Oh, I see I was mistaken. You take more after your father than meets the eye. He was just as impertinent as you, which proved not to be too becoming for him in the end. I should prefer to think that you do not make the same stupid mistakes. Prove to me that you are your mother’s daughter. Prove that you are smarter, Tinúviel.”

Lúthien froze. The taunts about her father were one thing, but this… there was only one person who had ever named her Tinúviel, had kept calling her by that name when asking her to join him in his plays out in the peaceful glades of Neldoreth.

Dearon, oh beloved Daeron, she thought. Daeron, who was as dear to her as a brother. Nothing had been seen nor heard from him since his disappearance, safe perhaps in Lúthien’s own nightmares- nightmares that had just been proven only too real. There was no other explanation for Sauron’s knowing this name other than Daeron having fallen prey to Sauron’s cruelty as well. She willed her tears not to fall, not to betray the grief she felt, to yet remain cool and calm and deal with Sauron. Him she needed to bring down, and then she would weep, then she would mourn.

“And I should prefer you to give back what you have stolen, both the fortress and my friends.” she retorted icily.

“Oh, but I did not steal them. They came to call on me instead, and very rude they were, too. Well, I should not expect any better from that Man, but from an Elf-lord that came out of the West…” he sighed with feigned regret “…I thought I might see better manners. Mind you, he was very amusing, trying to conquer me with a song. Are you going to do the same thing, daughter of Melian? Shall the song of Mairon and that of Melian mingle again, like it did before Arda was wrought?”

Before Lúthien could think of anything to retaliate, Huan growled, prompting Sauron to turn his attention towards him instead.

“Ah.” he said softly. “Yes, this does seem like a little more of a threat than a singing fairy. Let me see now…”

And he turned himself into a werwolf before their very eyes, losing no time to hurl himself at Huan.

Lúthien was caught by surprise when Sauron transformed, but Huan was not. Rather, he seemed to have been waiting for precisely that to happen, for he neither flinched nor drew away, but sprang at Sauron in return without a trace of hesitation. Tufts of fur soon filled the air together with yelping and howling, and before Lúthien could overcome her astonishment and start to feel truly anxious for her faithful companion, the fight ceased. Deep growls emanated from Huan’s throat as he stood above the would-be werewolf, his teeth embedded in his opponent’s throat, which, Lúthien noted with a sense of deep satisfaction, bled profusely.
She smirked.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you? I say, Huan has barely a scratch on him and you do look pretty bad. Now, to resume our chat of old times and ways, I wondered all the while if you might recognise this knife?”

The glint in the werewolf’s eyes told Lúthien that he did, and hated her for it.

“I thought so. It would have surprised me had you not, honestly. It is your old master’s work after all, which he made for Lord Oromë to give to the Elven ambassadors. Very well then. You see, I intent to place that knife somewhere it may end your life, so that you can flee back to your cowardly master unclad. Would you like that?”

She waited a moment just for the satisfaction of it, well aware that Sauron could neither move nor speak in the position he was currently in.

“Of course, it would be quite shameful for me to take your life when Huan here has done all the fighting, so we might well just wait. You see, you seem rather incarnate to me in this furry little hide, and an incarnate body only holds so much blood and once that is spent, that body is dead. Unless, of course, you were to… overthink your words from before. Then we might let you go. You said you sang with my mother? Well, perhaps you remember enough of her theme to find a way to heal that wound. Might lessen your defeat a bit. But in return for that favour, I demand that you be gone from this place forever, and that you set all your prisoners free, both those still clad and those unclad, so that they may go and find peace. Do we have an agreement?”

For a long moment, they just stared at one another, then with a noise that was part gurgling wail, part a scream of frustration, the wolf turned back again into the fair form of Sauron. Huan let go of him, and Sauron scrambled up and off into the night, leaving a trace of blood behind him.

The moment he was gone a change came over the island, as if a dark veil had been lifted off it. First an owl hooted not far off, then a soft breeze ruffled through the autumn-leaves, and soon the rushing of the river could be heard again, replacing the deathly silence that had before held the place captive. Lúthien took a few deep breaths and felt the whole island breathe with her, felt it heal beneath her feet- and then, to her mingled surprise and horror, figures started to emerge from the fortress, gaunt and ragged and covered in wounds; Elves, Men, and even two Dwarves who clearly fled before her as much as before Sauron. She could hardly blame them, not when they suffered so dearly from the war the Elves fought with Morgoth. It grieved her nonetheless, and had she only been less anxious to find out about Beren and Finrod, she would have gone after the Dwarves to offer her assistance.

The Elves and Men meanwhile thanked her on their knees, something she wished they would not do. There was so much hurt, so much pain, and yet her heart selfishly urged her to find her friends. Her aching conscience still prevailed- she could not leave the captives to their fates just yet, but must help whom she could.
Only how? Injuries were not the most pressing problem here, most would heal on their own with some rest and proper food. Yet it was precisely that proper food that was impossible to come by now. The year waned towards winter and the land was barren, and none of these people looked fit to hunt.

A moment later, realisation had her smacking her head, startling those around her. She paid them no heed, however, but instead unpacked the bag she carried with her. It was unprecedented, maybe, but if the way-bread could heal a weary Elf, it could certainly help those very nearly-starved Men.

As she broke the sigil on the first package of lembas, gasps of surprise rippled through the Elves that surrounded her. She looked at them, ready to scorn them if they thought that the way-bread of the Elves was not to be given to Men in dire need, but instead saw in their eyes only awe. And then she understood- the making of lembas must be something that was unique within Ennor to the realms of the house of Finarfin, for its making and distribution was by Elvish law the domain of the queen or lady of a realm only. So many of the Exiles had left their wives, mothers and daughters behind in Valinor that only within Nargothrond was lembas made, and in Brithombar where Galadriel abode, and wherever now dwelled the handmaidens of her mother, who had learned the art from their queen.

Lúthien did not heed their surprise, not caring to pause and explain, until with a strangled cry, an elf fell to his knees before her, clutching the hem of her robe in a gesture of surrender.

“Oh lady, lady!” he sobbed, and Lúthien was shocked when she recognise him.
He had been one of Oropher’s archers, wounded like Oropher himself in the first onslaught of the battle, and so like his captain saved by lucky misfortune from the massacre that had followed. One of the many people Lúthien had utterly lost sight of after the realm of Eglador had been dissolved.

“Please get up!” she said gently, helping him rise once again to his feet.

“Ah my Lady Lúthien, for a moment I thought…”

Words failed him, though it mattered not. Lúthien knew he had mistaken her for her mother at first glance.

“I am not Queen Melian, unfortunately. My regrets for robbing you of that comfort.”

“But that you do not. What more comfort could I have wished for than to meet you once more, dearest lady? Is there anything I can do to assist you in your task?”

She smiled gratefully as a solution to her problem arose in her mind.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is. Will you lead the injured to a place by the river where the bank is shallow enough for them to wash and drink and rest? Distribute the lembas carefully among you all. I shall keep but a bit to myself for the errand I still have to accomplish, and for those I hope to find alive in the confines of the fortress.”

“But my lady, will you not stay with us? Surly no greater goal you can hope to achieve than you already have, lest you would threaten Bauglir on his throne himself?”

Lúthien smiled wryly.

“That it is indeed that I intent to do.”

And, seeing the disbelief in the elf’s eyes, she added:
“I have intended to do so ever since Círdan came to Menegroth, ever since I saw my mother’s heart break when she learned of my father’s fate, ever since I learned that that abomination threw the Lord of Beleriand to his orcs for their sick pleasure!”

Oropher’s archer recoiled slightly, as she had expected him to, but she would not let him find his speech again, would not suffer him to try and talk her out of her undertaking. She therefore squeezed his shoulder tightly and said:
“Please get the injured and weary down to the river now. When they are strong enough, they may go home if a home they still have. Those who do not should aim for Nargothrond if they may. Its gates will be open to all who come there as my friends.”

The other nodded gravely and bowed, and soon Elf and Man alike made their way down to the river. Lúthien took a deep breath, and stepped into the dark maw of the ruined fortress with Huan by her side.

The inside was more terrible than Lúthien could ever have imagined, possibly all the more so because it had once been so fair. She searched for Finrod and Beren everywhere, but made very slow progress as there were so many that still required her attention. For some, it was a simple matter of freeing them, the cast-iron locks springing open at her touch now that Sauron had relinquished rule over the fortress to her. Together with the freed, she tended to the wounded and dying. Some they carried outside to the new encampment, but for most, the only aid they could give was to be with them in their final moments. Lúthien held the hands of the maimed Elves, telling them that they were now free to go and waited with them until Námo called them; the Men she would ease into a slumber, singing songs of comfort, so that they could slip away painlessly in their sleep. An injured Dwarf waved her away, preferring to go alone. Lúthien respected his dying wish.

Then, by Huan’s bark, she at last discovered them whom she had so desperately sought. Finrod and Beren lay curled together, naked and bleeding, and one look into Finrod’s bright eyes told Lúthien that the situation was dire. She let herself fall to her knees with a sob beside Beren and turned him onto his back, and was relieved beyond measure when he took a deep, shuddering breath and opened his eyes. She spoke words of encouragement while she tended to him, wrapping him in a torn mantle she had found during her search and checking for injuries that would be immediately life-threatening. She found none, and while having clearly been tortured, he was in much better shape than most of the prisoners she had yet tended to.

In that moment Huan whined, and thus Lúthien turned her attention at last towards Finrod, whom she had believed fine until now. One close look, however, told her that she had been mistaken, and with a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach she also realise that the blood on the floor was Finrod’s alone, and that Nargothrond’s former king was hanging onto life by a mere thread.

“Oh no. Finrod, I am so sorry.” she muttered as she gently lowered Beren to the ground and crawled over to her cousin at last.

Finrod tried to smile and clutched her hand, but Lúthien could not quell the tears that stung her eyes. His stomach looked as though the werewolf that lay dead beside them had started to devour him alive, an injury clearly too severe to be overcome, even by one as powerful as Finrod. Lúthien was left just stroking his golden curls, trying to ignore the fact that they were matted with blood.

“Are you cold?” she whispered, trying but failing to keep her voice from trembling.

“A little. No, don’t bother. Keep the mantle, Beren.”

Only Finrod’s words made Lúthien aware that Beren had robbed over to them as well and was about to pull the mantle off himself that Lúthien had just covered him in.

“You need it more than I, for I shall not be cold for very long now. Here…” He shakily pulled his ring off his finger, and handed it to Beren. “Keep the ring as a token of my friendship and love. Don’t look like that, don’t be sad… I shall go home to… my sweetheart at long last. After some rest.”

He paused to catch his breath, and Lúthien did her best to smile despite the grief she felt. She knew that Finrod had ever pined for one he had called Amarië, whom he had had to leave behind when he had left Aman. Lúthien hoped with all her might that he was indeed right, that he would soon be returned to life in the West, and reunited with his beloved. It simply had to be so.

“I would have loved to be at your wedding, little cousin.” she said while all the while stroking his head softly, trying to put as much encouragement into her words as possible.

“I would have loved that, too.” he whispered back. “But I think not that this shall be your fate. I hope it shall not be. For I think that a high doom is still before you, and that your deeds shall be remembered longest of all that of Elvenkind in Middle-Earth.”

Lúthien gritted her teeth. She could not deny that he was dying in her arms, but her heart failed to grasp that truth. Finrod, ever so bubbly, so golden, so kind, how could he end here in his very own tower, mauled to death by Sauron’s grizzly monsters?

“Jus’ one more thing…” he mumbled, his words hardly discernible anymore. “You two have to… promise me…”

Finrod’s body slackened in Lúthien’s arms and for a moment she thought it too late and him dead, but then he drew another shuddering breath and opened his eyes again by a fraction.

“What do we promise you, Finrod?” Beren asked in a low voice that did not mask his crying, grasping Finrod’s arm tightly.

“You’re in love. Stop… hiding it… before yourself. You can’t… hide from anyone else, anyway. Learn from… Aegnor’s mistakes. Be… happy… while the chance is given to you.”

He smiled once more, fresh blood painting his pale lips scarlet.

“Farewell.”

He grasped both their hands for a moment, ere every tension left his body.

“No. Finrod…”

Lúthien shook him slightly, but Finrod did not respond anymore. Beren carefully placed two fingers on Finrod’s neck, then shook his head.

“He is dead.” he pressed between gritted teeth, before curling himself into a ball over Finrod’s bloody body.

Lúthien had never heard a man cry like that before, but curiously felt that he spent her tears as well, sobbed out her pain and mourned the injustice of it all that she, too, felt. Her own tears would not fall now that Finrod had died. Again, it seemed that she could cry only in anticipation of the worst, not once it had come to pass. She knew not why, nor what it was that prevented her from ever truly mourning, that spurned her to naught but action to assuage her grief. But action would have to wait, she had to wait, had to let Beren mourn Finrod, had to bury him. No doubt, those who had been his subjects in Nargothrond would return tither and would carry the news back to Orodreth that his king, his brother would return no more to his fair city.

Moments turned to eternity while she gazed down on Beren in silence, and upon her dead cousin. How could something so beautiful, so kind, so good come to such an ending? They did not even have clean clothes to put on him, nor linen to bandage his wounds. He would lie but in a rough grave of stone, so very unbefitting for so great and beloved a king. But then, how did one properly bury a king? Lúthien knew it not, and the feeling she had tried to keep at bay all night crashed over her at last, and for one heartbeat, she looked down not upon the body of her cousin but that of her father.

With a scream of rage that seemed to shake the whole fortress she jumped to her feet and ran until she found an opening in the wall through which she could escape the oppressing walls. She would not suffer this. Not Finrod’s death as well. Stepping out into the biting wind she turned north and swung her fist at the hidden enemy.

“I am coming for you, Morgoth. I am coming for you and my coming shall be your end. You cannot escape the doom you brought upon yourself. You cannot destroy me and if you try, I shall come for you like a wraith of vengeance. Your fall is neigh!”