Of Beren and Lúthien: The Complete Tale of “The Lay of Leithian” by LuthienHuan

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Chapter 4 Of Thorondor’s Meeting and Fingolfin

Beren meets Thorondor who tells him of the saddest day since Middle-earth was created.

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The Orcs continue their hunt for Beren near the old homesteads. One line of five Orcs is cautiously hunting the nearby woods when there’s a sudden “whoosh” sound and an Orc falls beheaded from a swinging branch with sword attached. There’s a sharp “twang” and another falls dead with an arrow through his throat. The other three Orcs scatter as another “twang” is heard, and another Orc falls with an arrow through the back of his head and exiting out of his eye. The other two see Beren and run toward him. After a short chase they fall screaming into a deep pit and are impaled by many sharp wooden spikes sticking up at various angles.

Beren then hears a dove and looks in wonder as it sits on a low branch of a nearby tree. It sounds as if the bird is cheering for him. He smiles at it then runs into the darkness. Dorlak comes and looks into the pit with another Orc.

“That’s fifty-five,” Dorlak said. “How is it he can get to us but we can’t get to him?” The other Orc shakes his head in disbelief. Another Orc in the distance screams. “And that’s fifty-six.”

*****

Several hours later, a light rainfall with a little lightning has started. A group of three Orcs search for Beren deeper into the woods. In a flash of lightning, they see what they believe is Beren with his back to them. They smile and sneak closer. One gives a signal, and the three jump on Beren. However, they have leaped onto a makeshift scarecrow. They fly off the cliff and scream as they fall hundreds of feet to their deaths. Beren comes into an opening with his sword Dagmor in hand and smiles as he looks toward the edge.

Beren sees another dove in a nearby tree, closer to the edge than he, sitting on a low branch and cooing. He wonders if it’s the same one he had seen before. Suddenly, the dove begins squawking loudly and flies from the tree. Beren watches as the bird flies by passing close to his head. Turning, he sees the dove fluttering in the face of an Orc who holds a bow and arrow in his hands, cursing the dove and swatting violently at it. After several attempts, he finally knocks away the dove, which thuds against a nearby tree and hits the ground hard; it survives but doesn’t fly away. A second after the dove is swatted Beren shoots an arrow through the Orc’s face. He walks to the Orc, making sure it’s dead. He looks around for other Orcs. Seeing none he then goes to the dove and carefully picks it up.

“Hey, little fellow, are you all right?” he asked. “You have got to be the bravest little dove to grace the skies of Middle-earth. You saved my life, and I thank you. Let me take a look at you.”

Beren carefully examines the bird, and then says, “I don’t feel any broken bones, but I bet you’ve got a bad bruise. That’s probably why you haven’t tried to fly away. Well, the least I can do is care for you tonight.”

Beren, with bird in hand, starts walking to his campsite.

*****

Arriving at his temporary lodging, Beren unties his sheathed sword, tosses it on the ground and sits under a lean-to near his dead fire. The rain that doused the coals has stopped. Beren reaches for his jacket lying on the ground near a bottom corner of the lean-to. He wads it up and sets the bird on it. He puts some small pieces of dry wood on the fire and gets a small blaze going. Then he opens a nearby package that he had dragged out while retrieving the jacket.

“Well, Mr. Dove, are you hungry?” Beren asked. “I’m starving. Let’s see we have berries. And look, more berries.”

Beren sets some berries before the bird, which happily pecks away at them.

“I bet you’d like some water, too.” Beren uncorks his water leather. He takes from his side a knife and digs out a hole in the bottom of the cork. He then pours a couple drops of water into the hole and sets it before the dove.

“Here, drink this. I’ll give you some more if you’re still thirsty when you’re done.”

Beren opens another bag. “Look, I found some scraps of meat.” The bird sees it, starts flapping his one good wing and squawks. “What? It’s prairie chicken,” Beren said, and he then realized what he had just said, and why the bird is squawking. He throws the package into the fire.

“You know, I never looked at it that way. Well, since you saved my life tonight, I will make this oath to you, Mr. Dove, and to all: I, Beren son of Barahir, will eat no flesh or slay any bird or beast that is not in the service of Morgoth! I swear to all that this oath I shall keep unto my death!”

Beren eats a handful of berries then lies down on his side near the fire. The dove walks to him and cuddles below his chin against his chest. Beren takes the bird back to the jacket.

“No, you can’t sleep with me. This is your spot, Mr. Dove. You don’t want to sleep next to me unless you want to be accidentally crushed in your sleep.”

The dove gives a coo, and Beren returns to his same spot and lies the same way. Again, the dove comes to snuggle. Beren again takes him back.

“Now, Mr. Dove, I don’t want to roll over on you and break my oath at the same time.”

Beren again lies down. The last thing he sees before falling asleep is the dove sitting on his jacket.

*****

The morning sun awakens Beren, who smiles at the dove – which is under his chin and staring into his eyes.

“You’re very brave, Mr. Dove; and very lucky.” Beren’s expression turns to wonder when he sees the legs of a deer walk by his smoldering campfire. He lifts up his head and sees not only the one deer. There are also a couple groundhogs, raccoons, rabbits and other deer on the ground, and there are many birds in the trees. The animals, seeing Beren now awake and looking at them, begin making their respective noises as if they’re trying to speak to him. He doesn’t see Thorondor, the twenty-five-foot tall Eagle-King, standing behind him.

“Oh sure,” Beren said, “the day after I say I’ll eat no flesh is the day every bird and beast in the forest comes to stand in my stew pot. I wonder what all of you are saying.”

“Well met, Beren son of Barahir,” Thorondor said.

Beren slowly turns his head and sees behind him the large feathery legs of a mighty bird. He slowly looks up to see an eagle’s face looking down at him; a large sharp golden beak shines from the morning sun. Startled, he grabs Dagmor and quickly unsheathes it, jumps up and points it at the over-sized bird, who doesn’t move; as does none of the other animals, nor do they act the least frightened. A deer comes from behind Beren and licks his ear.

“What do you think you’re going to do with that?” Thorondor asked. “Is this the way you greet all your friends?”

Beren stutters, “Fr… Friends? Who are you?”

“I am Thorondor.”

“Thorondor? The Thorondor? King of the Eagles of Manwë? That Thorondor? The Thorondor who helped Fingon rescue Maedhros after Morgoth hung him by his wrist from a precipice of Thangorodrim?”

     “Yes, ’tis I.”

     “I’m sorry, but you startled me.” Beren tosses Dagmor back to the ground and bows. “I am a huge admirer of yours, Your Highness.”

“You need not call me ‘Highness’ nor bow. Just Thorondor will suffice.”

“It doesn’t seem right not to acknowledge the title of the one who marred Morgoth’s face and saved the body of Fingolfin from being tossed to his wolves.”

“I appreciate the acknowledgement. However, saying my title isn’t necessary; and I sure wish it be associated not with one of Middle-earth’s saddest days since its creation.”

Thorondor turns his head to the side and closes his eyes. Beren chooses his next words carefully and speaks them very slowly.

“I have heard only several reports of that day and felt that it was merely a terrible event. However, hearing now your words and seeing the expression on your face, I get the sense I have heard not the full extent of that day’s sorrows. I’m very sorry. It was not my intent to speak of it lightly. Please forgive me, Thorondor. Nonetheless, I would gladly hear the true account from one who was present, if it doesn’t overly pain you.”

Thorondor looks sternly down at Beren and exclaims, “Just its thought overly pains me!” Thorondor’s sternness turns to sadness, and he signs. He then begins to speak softly.

“I’m sure you know well it was at the end of the Dagor Bragollach, when Fingolfin son of Finwë and High King of the Noldor mounted his pure white steed Rochallor. They resembled the great Vala Oromë and his horse, Nahar, as they rode over Dor-nu-Fauglith. The fires of the Battle of Sudden Flames were nearly quenched as they sped like lightning until they reached…

“…the Gates of Angband. They arrived uncontested; for none of Morgoth’s servants dared to look upon the face of Fingolfin, whose eyes in his great madness of rage shone like the eyes of the Valar in wrath. He took his silver horn and winded with it a clear keen note that literally shook Angband’s foundations. He then shouted…

‘Morgoth, come forth!’

“He dismounted Rochallor with shield in hand. Then he again blew his horn and smote upon the gate, shouting…

‘Morgoth, come through your ghastly brazen doors, Dark King! You may be a monstrous craven lord, a tyrant who’s hated by all of heaven and earth, as well as his own banded thralls, but will you not fight with your own hand and sword?! Come forth, foe of Gods, Elves and Men! I await you here! Come! Show your face!’

“In that hour, Fingolfin stood as such a champion that Morgoth’s servants who watched from behind the Gate wondered indeed if their leader would come. And when Morgoth first appeared, they saw his reluctance; and it is believed that his need to save face before his Balrogs, Orcs and other servants was the only reason he accepted the challenge. Of those ever listed among the Valar, Morgoth alone knows fear. And when he stepped through the Gate and looked upon Fingolfin, his look of risen fear could not be contained. For even under Morgoth’s dark shadow, Fingolfin, with his raiment of snowy white, his bright shield as a field of heaven’s blue and his sword Ringil drawn like cold ice, appeared shining as a crystal pale star.

“Morgoth came attired as ever in his burnt black raiment with his vast shield of unblazoned sable field and huge mace-like weapon…

“Grond was its name. And although it swung slowly above him as Morgoth towered over the gleaming King, Fingolfin showed no fear. Without warning, Morgoth loosed the hammer of the underworld down on him like a thunderbolt. It clang to the ground creating a pit and a cloud of smoke. Like a stab of white light, Fingolfin shot to the side unscathed. With skilled precision he struck with Ringil. When the cold sword devised of Elvish skill pierced Morgoth’s flesh, he wailed in anguish so loudly that the mountains shook, and Angband’s armies fell trembling upon their faces. Many times Morgoth essayed to smite Fingolfin with Grond; seven times Ringil answered deep in the Evil Lord’s flesh.

“But when Grond was unsuccessful, Morgoth bore down his shield, and the Elven King was beaten to his knees three times. Yet, three times Fingolfin arose, star-shining and proud with stricken shield and sundered helm. Morgoth’s great blows could not keep him down, but the King’s own fatigue caused him to stumble into one of Grond’s pits. Morgoth then placed his foot on his neck, and its weight like a fallen hill he could not defend. With death in his eyes, Fingolfin gave one last desperate stroke with Ringil and hewed Morgoth’s right foot. Morgoth screamed, and his black blood gushed and smoked filling Grond’s pits. He then took the King’s body and broke it and would feed it to his wolves.

“That was too much for me. In anger I came rushing from Crissaegrim and stooped on Morgoth, marring his face with my beak, which caused him to release the King. As Fingolfin fell and Morgoth’s servants began shooting at me, I seized his body in my talons and quickly flew above their darts, which harms me never.”    

A tear falls from Thorondor’s beak as he continued, “Thus died Fingolfin, most proud and valiant of all known Elven Kings. The Orcs make no boast of the duel at the Gate; neither do the Elves sing of it, for their sorrow is too deep. I laid him atop the mountain that looked from the north upon the hidden valley of Gondolin. King Turgon second son of Fingolfin built a high cairn over him. No Orc dares to pass over the mount of Fingolfin or draw near his tomb.

“As you know, his first son Fingon with sorrow became High King of the Noldor; he reigns now. As for Morgoth, he goes ever halt on one foot, and the pains of his wounds can not be healed; and in his face is the scar I gave him.”

After several seconds of silence, Beren said, “Again, I had never heard the full account; and again, I apologize.”

“Like my title,” Thorondor said, “your apologies are unnecessary.”

“Well, it is well met and an honor indeed; and to all of you, I bid you welcome,” he said. And then he asked, “But why do all of you seek me?”

“Since you said you would not eat them,” Thorondor replied, “they wanted to meet the legendary Beren son of Barahir, who has done much for them. In return, they have done their best to protect you, and they always will. You have many friends, though you know them not. You have also helped those whom you know not, in more ways than you can imagine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have any idea how much damage one Orc, a legion of Orcs or an army of Orcs can do? They beat down plants or burn trees for no good reasons, destroying birds’ and beasts’ homes and food. They slay many beasts just for the sport of killing, or they wound them to let them die where they fall, while they watch and laugh.”

“I am only one man. I wish I could do more; believe me.”

“We do believe. But did you know: in the past three months you have slain more Orcs than all the armies in Beleriand combined; and that your name is being sung as far west as the sea and farther south than the Isle of Balar, and even in the depths of Nargothrond and Menegroth? To say the least, the Dark Lord is very angry with you.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. Here’s something else you may know not: you have made true the statement spoken at your father’s cairn regarding Morgoth’s and Sauron’s disbelief that only one man could do so much damage.”

“How do you know what I said?”

“Mrs. Dove, who saved your life and stayed the night with you, heard you say that and told Manwë. Morgoth is so angry with you that he has put a price on your head no less than the High King of the Noldor. He has also commanded Sauron to put together an entire army against you. Sauron also has unleashed numerous werewolves, fell beasts inhabited by dreadful spirits that he has imprisoned in their bodies.”

“No, I knew not those things. Then why have I not seen more Orcs or these werewolves?”

Thorondor laughed and said, “There are no Orcs or werewolves who wish to see you. Morgoth’s servants flee from you rather than seek you out; and I blame them not. You have used tactics that bewilder them. They are scared to tread where you walk; to enter the lands you roam. If it wasn’t for the whips of their masters, there would never be an Orc to contest you. They also know about the birds and beasts that love and aid you, as well as the Eagles who keep watch on Crissaegrim and the Vala Manwë, who watches all from Taniquetel. Look over my left wing; top of the cliff. That’s my son Landroval and Meneldor. Coming up behind you is the fastest of all birds and beasts, my son Gwaihir the Windlord, who brings you food.”

Gwaihir flies in, sets down a basket and lands. “Well met, Beren son of Barahir,” he said. “Your friends have gathered for you berries, fruits, vegetables and herbs; everything a growing boy needs.”

“Thank you,” Beren said with a smile.

Gwaihir then turned to Thorondor and said, “Father, Manwë wishes council with you when you’re finished here.”

“Thank you, my son,” said Thorondor. “I’ve nearly finished.” He turned back to Beren and said, “Just remember, Beren, even when you think times are at their darkest, alone you are not. Continue to be cautious and wise. And if you ever need help, just call out in the wilderness. Farewell, my friend.”

Beren again begins to bow and then quickly straightens. “Thank you, King… I mean… Thorondor. Farewell, both of you. It is my hope that we shall meet again,” he said.

Thorondor and Gwaihir say “farewell” and leap into flight. Each animal makes their respective sound and then flies, waddles or runs away.

“Thanks to all of you,” Beren said, adding, “farewell.”