A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

Chapter 11- Beren

Beren took a deep breath, desperately trying to keep his fear at bay. Around him, pandemonium reigned, with people gathering arms, being clad in armour, mounting frightened steeds. Others were trying to keep out of the way, trying desperately not to be separated from relatives. And then there was Beren himself, who tried to appeal to reason and convince as many as possible to flee, to follow himself and Lúthien to the wilds, rather than hurling themselves into the path of certain death.

And above all that, the one word that was whispered, shouted, wailed- ‘Glaurung!’

He still marvelled how so natural a thing as grieving for a parent could cause such utter mayhem. It had started with the disappearance of Niënor and Morwen, and had got them… here? To facing a blithering dragon?

Beren wondered, as he had done on countless occasions over the past few weeks, if he could have somehow prevented this from happening, if there was anything that might have swayed Túrin from his resolution to prepare Nargothrond for battle. After all, he had once been as close to a father as anyone but Húrin himself could have been to Túrin. Did that in truth make this mess his fault as well?

Deep down, however, Beren knew that it was not so, that Túrin had inherited both his father’s lust for war and sense of justice and his mother’s pride and strong-headedness. And oh, the boy -no, man, Beren reminded himself- could be so convincing. He had been a silent, grave child that had kept mostly to himself. Not many had noticed him back then, and just now, Beren wished it had stayed that way. Ironically, it had been Beren himself who had ever encouraged Turin to have trust in his own ability, to be a little more outgoing, to talk to people, and now he was reaping the reward for it. Túrin had grown up to be an extraordinary swordsman, and by the time he had reached his full manhood, little was left of the shyness he had displayed as a boy. That paired with the fact that Túrin was gifted with his mother’s stunning beauty made him a rallying point for many Elves, and that he was a Man apparently only added to his mystique. Even the princess was smitten with Túrin.

That in itself was hardly something to be lamented, of course, had not everything taken a turn for the worse when the news of Morwen’s disappearance reached them. Túrin had been beside himself with grief and sorrow, which was to be expected, of course. Beren himself had been stricken by the loss of his cousin and her daughter, despite the dark forebodings he had had when Túrin had first come to Nargothrond. Having these forebodings proven right was still a painful thing.

They knew very little about what had happened to Morwen and Níenor, only that they had fled Dor-lómin when the servants of the enemy had become ever crueler, finally agreeing to Beren’s repeated invitations for them to come to Nargothrond. Only in Nargothrond, they had never arrived, and nothing had ever been seen nor heard of them since.

Túrin’s grief had soon turned into something else, something close to an obsession. He could talk about nothing but defeating Morgoth, revenge what he had done to his family and the people of Dor-lómin, and then find out what had happened to his mother and sister. And the people of Nargothrond harkened to him, including, tragically, King Orodreth himself.

And by order of the King, Nargothrond had been armed and trained, and a broad bridge built over the river Narog. How could anyone be so blind? Why did Orodreth, who had always been so careful, not see the trap he was running into?

In his desperation, Beren had appealed to Lúthien to talk to Túrin, for after all, she was no stranger to the burning desire for revenge, but even that had been to no avail. Túrin had called her insincere, had reminded her of her own quest, and how he was far better prepared than Lúthien had been.

Only he failed to see that contrary to Lúthien, who had been prepared to brave Morgoth on her own, Túrin was on the verge of leading an entire kingdom to its doom.

Thus Beren had been forced to stand by an watch as Túrin had acquired the strange black sword Anglachel from Orodreth, and the helm of his father that Morwen had once sent to Nargothrond as payment for her son’s fostering -that fact still made Beren want to douse her in cold water and ask her if she had taken complete leave of her senses- and prepared to face Glaurung as a captain of Elves. That fool.

But it seemed that Túrin in his spectacular pride and overconfidence was even immune to the fear of Morgoth’s foulest monster- at least the foulest they had seen yet- and  would not step down even now. Nor would that other fool -Orodreth in name- listen to anyone’s counsel but Túrin’s. But this, finally, marked the end of Beren’s loyalty to his King. He would not face Glaurung, nor suffer his family to die in the dragon’s fell fire. No. Instead, he and Lúthien had gathered as many around them as they could, all those who were wise enough to see the madness of Túrin’s errand, or else were unfit to try and defend Nargothrond, and sought to flee the city rather than wait for their doom within its walls. Only where they would lead them, Beren still did not know. Into the wilderness, yes, somewhere where they could hide, somewhere where they were of no interest to the great worm. 

He sighed deeply. That decision to keep their heads as low as possible had also cost them their best possible protection. The first place to hide that had come to Lúthien’s mind had indeed been the ruins of her old home, but she had already disregarded it again before Beren had even been able to congratulate her on her ingenious idea. She claimed that they had no way of knowing if not orcs had made the caves their shelter, nor if Morgoth did not have an eye on them still. It was just too risky to go there while they had still other -albeit less comfortable- options left.

There was much too much truth in her words to ignore them.

Anyway, the question of where they would take shelter was the least of Beren’s worries, anyway. There was still the much greater problem of getting everyone who was willing out, unseen both by the far-sighted eyes of Galurung and those of Túrin, who was adamant that even those who could not fight should remain in Nargothrond, which he deemed to be well-protected enough to withstand the dragon should their army fail to stop him. He had even had the audacity to bid Beren coordinate the preparation of meals and beds to the returning. As though he was not a seasoned warrior who was more than able to wield a sword with one hand.

But Túrin in his army had no use for cripples.

No, Beren scolded himself, that was him being vastly unfair. Whatever Túrin’s faults, he had never looked down on those who were marked by their misfortune. Rather, Beren was hampered by his missing hand and also the slow but steady approach of old age, so it was not altogether wrong to assume that he was not the warrior anymore he once had been.

But while he could brush off Túrin’s assumption that he could not fight as really his own hurt pride, the young man’s attitude towards Lúthien and -worse- Dior he could not forgive. Túrin had apparently spared Lúthien no thought, had never considered that she was an able-bodied elven princess? More, that she had been borne by a divine being? Túrin knew well enough what she had achieved, after all. That he would underestimate her just because she was a woman irked Beren beyond what her could express.

But even that was as nothing compared to Túrin accusing Dior of cowardice because he chose not to join the forces of the king, when even Orodreth himself had granted Dior the free choice. It was infuriating. And Dior, hot-headed as he still was sometimes, had almost risen to the bait, and it was only by Nimloth’s desperate pleas that he had refrained from joining the army.

Beren shuddered to think about his son going to battle, even more a battle that could never be won. He would certainly not been able to bear losing his only child, and nor would Lúthien. That, if nothing else, was what made Beren certain that he was doing the right thing with asking everyone to flee.

Doom came for Nargothrond more brutally than even Beren had anticipated, and so, so quickly. They hardly made it out as it was, and were still able -and forced- to watch as orcs swarmed over the bridge to plunder and ransack Finrod’s fair halls, and murder for bind those who were left within, leading the survivors away as prisoners. Lúthien beside him shook with rage and grief, and Beren knew her feelings, and shared them. Those poor souls must surely envy the dead.

Then the dragon came. Had he not been so utterly evil, Beren would almost have called him beautiful. He moved in a fluid motion that recalled that of a snake, making his golden coils gleam in the sunlight. But the dragon stank, and as he approached, burned all that had once been so fair.

Oh, why could they not have listened, to him, to Lúthien, to poor Gwindor, who had ever counselled caution and had finally sought death in battle rather that live again through imprisonment and the cruelty of Morgoth’s henchmen. Worse still, Beren wondered again and again if he could not perhaps save some still, if only he braved to return to the ruins of Nargothrond now? But deep down, he knew that he had done all that he could, and that everything else was out of his hand now.

Only later, when the cries and roars of battle had subsided somewhat, did the scouts find them that Lúthien had sent out, bearing news that made all of them stifle their wails and sobs of despair- of the utter destruction of Nargothrond’s forces, of the fall of King Orodreth and the gruesome death of Finduilas at the hands of the orcs. What had become of Túrin, no-one could say. They had not found his body on the battlefield, though that hardly meant that he had survived for certain. Was he one of the prisoners now, Beren wondered? The boy he had once raised as a son?

All of a sudden, Beren felt ashamed of his less-then-warm feelings towards Túrin lately. Yes, the boy’s actions had been foolhardy, but he most certainly did not deserve the same gruesome fate that was said to be his father’s lot- being held captive by Morgoth, and taunted, and forced to watch helplessly as tragedy unfolded. If not worse things awaited him.

And Morwen… had she not sent Túrin to him specifically, trusting in the bond of kinship? She had surely loved and cared for Túrin as much as he loved Dior, and he had proven unworthy of her trust in the end. It would have been his part to tame and calm Túrin’s boyish fire, to show him better ways of revenge, yet he had not. He had forsaken Túrin.

But as much as it pained Beren, they could not concern themselves with Túrin’s fate now. They must see to their own, and seek shelter, and stay alive, even though that meant leaving all behind that they once had known, and become a wandering people. It could not be helped.