Survivor's Guilt Coda by heget

The Eleventh and Twelfth

Beren had done this before.

This was one of the thoughts, slow and cold, that came to Beren in his insurmountable grief as he cradled the cooling corpse of beloved Finrod, king and friend. Blind hands feeling in the dark at the gaping wounds on Finrod’s chest where the wolf had scored with venomed fangs, fingers dipping into the blood that has overwhelmed his remaining senses, he wished for light to see and was thankful he could not. Strange that the blood which slid across and stuck to his fingers smelled exactly like that which leaked from mortal things. That the scent was over-familiar.

He had been here before, Barahir’s son. On the shores of Aeluin, rushing alone and wild with grief and rage into the orcs’ camp to slay that one holding aloft a dismembered hand, he knew this. For two years he had known this numbness.

Beren carried dead men’s names, the names of comrades that had left him behind. Not by choice, but what difference in the end? He alone had been there to pick up those burdens. He lived then, even though he had not desired to. He should have joined them, the names he carried in a solo dirge. The memories had driven him to his knees some days, made him curl in abandoned fox dens and weep, willed the coldness to seep into his bones and stop his thoughts, that he was singing what should have been a choir. Other days the rage and sorrow gave him the determination to climb after the enemy. His had been the only voice that remained to speak those names, to sing their deeds against the great foe and preserve their glory, to recall their joys and sorrows, and to carry on their defiance against the enemy with all his monsters and orcs. In battle Beren had called their names. In the silence of a dying forest he had whispered them. For two years Beren had carried the weight of twelve dead men: of doughty Dagnir and Ragnor, Radhruin, Dairuin and Gildor, Gorlim and Urthel, Arthad and Hathaldir, his cousins Belegund and Baragund, and his father Barahir. Kin and comrades, and all had died, leaving but Beren to survive.

Another twelve now, and this time, waiting for the last wolf to come, Beren knew he would not linger on alone. Pulling back the hand covered in Finrod’s blood, Beren waited and began to compose his song. A new list of names, ones just as dear, and like before only Beren left behind to recall their names. Of doughty Arodreth and Ethirdor, Aglar, Consael and Heledir, Tacholdir and Bân, Gadwar and Fân, Edrahil, and his king Felagund.

This time there would be no empty years afterward, alone but for the trees and the shy creatures of feather and fur that aided him in a long and fruitless fight against the enemy. No long years with words worn away until he forgot the names and remembered only the grief and vengeance-call that their deaths had burdened him with. No stumbling numb and dumb and mad into a starlight glen where a wondrous vision sang and danced and for a while lifted the burden of grief and rage.

He had joined his voice in a duet, that fey and joyous summer, he that had lost his voice.

To think of Lúthien hurt more than the rest of his sorrows. There his thoughts could not dwell, for he knew this time would have not a reprieve. 

He had done this before and knew what should happen next, what his next steps were, the next lines to sing.

'This time I shall join the names of my dead' - such was the thought of Beren.

So why did he smell flowers?

Chapter End Notes

Inspiration from The Lay of Leithian, chiefly lines 81-114 of Canto X.