Go On As Three by Elwin Fortuna

Go On As Three

Read Go On As Three

Beren, in agonising pain, took a moment to curse his rotten luck. He was at the bottom of a ravine somewhere near Nargothrond, at least one leg broken, unable to move, chased by wolves with a fell light in their eyes until his way was blocked. It was the ravine or the wolves, and he chose the ravine, but it hadn't treated him well.

Still, it was better than being dead and eaten. Where there's life, there's hope, he reminded himself. But it was growing dark, and these autumn nights were cold. His chances for rescue were slim.

Just as he was resigning himself to death by exposure and never seeing Lúthien's face again, a horn blew in the distance, bright and musical. The howling of the wolves above him went suddenly silent. Then he could hear horses and voices, and began yelling with all his might in Sindarin.

A few minutes later an Elf, tall and silver-haired, swung down by rope to land just before him on the ground. "A Mortal Man," he said. "You are wounded."

"My leg is the worst," Beren said. "I think it's broken."

The Elf nodded, reaching down to gently touch his leg with fingers that seemed to soothe the pain away. "We will bring you back to our home, not far away. But you must be blindfolded, as we live in a hidden city."

"In Nargothrond?" Beren asked. "That's the place I was trying to find. I need to speak with King Finrod Felagund. I am Beren son of Barahir, and I carry Felagund's ring, that he gave to my father as a token of the oath of protection he made to my family."

"Very well," the Elf said. "I am Celegorm son of Fëanor, and I will bring you back in safety to Nargothrond." He bent forward, taking Beren's hand in his own for a moment, and when he released it, Beren no longer felt any pain at all.

Celegorm stepped away, looking up to the top of the ravine, his eyes glittering brightly. It seemed to Beren as though he spoke with someone in thought, and a few moments later another rope came down, and another Elf with it.

Together, Celegorm, and the other Elf -- who curtly introduced himself as Curufin brother of Celegorm -- knotted the two ropes together to make a crude seat, then helped Beren up so that he could sit on it. A call went up to the other Elves, and Beren was slowly raised up, Celegorm and Curufin hanging on next to him.

Once at the top, Beren was placed before Celegorm on his horse. A large dog came over to sniff at him, as a cloth was tied over his eyes.

"That is Huan," Celegorm said, "my faithful companion in all adventures."

----

The last time Beren rode with the Elves, he had been a child on the very edge of the Long Peace, just before war erupted that fateful winter night. And those Elves had been Sindar of Mithrim travelling east, led by some fateful premonition over the Ered Luin, and stopping for a brief time in Ladros.

The glory and splendour of the Noldor in their beauty was as far distant from those humble Sindar as Lúthien's fair face was from Eilinel's. It was not that Eilinel had not been fair, but that Lúthien utterly eclipsed her, and having seen Lúthien, no other woman could compare.

But Celegorm could, Beren thought, and was shocked at his own thought. He had hardly had the chance to consider love or desire, in his hard and lonely life, and now love and desire seemed to be attacking him from all sides, breaking him down, pouring into him like an open vessel.

He pictured, in the darkness of the blindfold, Celegorm's face, framed by silver hair, and then beside it Lúthien's, her dark hair falling around her. For a moment he could see them turn to each other, fairest of their fair peoples, and it felt right and fitting.

When they entered Nargothrond, Celegorm gently drew the blindfold from his face before he helped Beren down. Sweeping Beren into his arms from the horse, he carried him off to his own rooms, calling for a healer along the way.

Beren was conscious of being carried in strong arms and then laid down on a soft bed. A healer bustled in a few minutes later, giving Beren something to drink that made him relax while his leg was examined.

"It is indeed broken," the healer said. "We can help a great deal with the pain and aid the knitting of the bone, but it will still take time."

"I need to see the King," Beren said fuzzily.

"I will speak to him," Celegorm said. Beren tried to form a 'thank-you' but drifted into sleep instead.

When he woke several hours later, it was to see King Finrod Felagund sitting in the armchair beside his bed. Felagund was beautiful too -- and it was clear to see that both he and Celegorm were from the same House -- but Celegorm's silver hair, Beren thought, was superior to Finrod's gold.

Beren began to tell his story, and at the word 'Silmaril,' Finrod stood up, looked out the open door, then quietly drew it shut and sat back down.

"You will be here some weeks yet, the healers say," Finrod said when Beren had told everything. "There is no hurry to decide what to do, and I will think it over very carefully. For now, you seem to have Celegorm's favour, and you most certainly have my aid, for what it is worth."

----

Celegorm seemed to have no greater task than to spend time with him, Beren figured to himself, several days later. King Finrod visited daily, albeit briefly, and even Curufin had been by a few times, accompanied by his son Celebrimbor. But Celegorm was there every day, for hours on end, regaling Beren with tales of hunting in Valinor long ago, or stories of tricks he had played on unsuspecting cousins. From the way his eyes glittered whenever Finrod came by, Beren was certain of the identity of at least one of those cousins.

Huan was also there with his master, lolling beside the bed with his great tongue out or sleeping with his head on his paws. At times Beren thought that the dog looked bored, and would rather be out hunting. One day about two weeks after Beren arrived, he said as much to Celegorm, who laughed. "Are you sending me from your side, son of Barahir?"

Beren stammered. "N-no, I do not wish you to go, but Huan, I am sure, would enjoy a run, and maybe you can find those wolves that were hunting me."

"Perhaps you're right," Celegorm said, tilting his head. "What do you say, boy?" he asked Huan. "Shall we go for a run tomorrow?"

Huan barked excitedly, and the next morning, they did not appear. Beren was both pleased and disappointed.

It was late in the evening when they arrived back, and Celegorm rushed into Beren's sickroom all eagerness. "I have hunted a great quarry," he said, laughing, and ushered Lúthien into the room. She let her dark cloak fall away and bent to kiss Beren.

Though they stood together, Lúthien and Celegorm, with himself looking up at them, just as he had in his daydream, there was no sense that he was inadequate compared to them. They were beautiful, so beautiful, and would be beautiful together, but their attention was mostly bent on Beren.

As Beren recovered, they accompanied him as he took his first few steps, as he walked across the room, as he walked to the feasting halls. Lúthien, Princess of Doriath, was given a suite of rooms equal to Finrod's own, the rooms that Finrod's sister usually stayed in.

Beren happily remained in Celegorm's guest room, slowly recovering his strength. He knew that at some point his quest would have to continue, but didn't wish to speak of it until he was well, not yet. Some of the things Finrod spoke of, about the Oath of Fëanor and the Silmarils, worried him, and he did not wish to lose Celegorm's friendship.

At last he could wait no longer. He was well, as well as he had ever been.

That evening after supper, he and Lúthien sat with Celegorm on the benches in the small garden off Celegorm's rooms. Huan sat beside Celegorm on the ground, thumping his great tail. Though it was November and chilly, warm air puffing up from the earth in metal pipes kept the garden pleasant at any time of year.

Celegorm had explained the first time they came out into the garden that it was his brother's invention, and now used in all the gardens of Nargothrond. Small birds could be heard singing. Lúthien held out her hand, and one of them alighted on her finger, cocking its little head at them with a keen eye before taking off again.

"You have been so kind to me," Beren began, hesitating, "but I must go on. I have a Quest and I cannot abandon it."

"A Quest?" Celegorm said, grinning. "I love Quests. I'm on one of my own. It's a very long Quest."

Lúthien gave Beren a warning look which he could not quite interpret, and dashed in herself to speak before Beren could go on. “My father, in his arrogance and folly, has laid an impossible task on Beren for my hand, bidding him steal a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of Morgoth. Now, as you surely know yourself, Celegorm son of Fëanor, this is madness, for if it were not, your Oath constrains you to seize them, does it not?”

Celegorm, who had been smiling broadly the moment before, frowned darkly, for a moment looking very much like his brother Curufin. “Thingol of Doriath makes sport of us, does he?” he asked Lúthien.

Lúthien tilted her head, assessing him. “No,” she said finally. “It’s Beren’s death he wishes, not yours.”

Celegorm gave a glance at Beren, sitting there by Lúthien’s side, and it was so plainly full of caring and a kind of tenderness that even a mortal Man could read it. “Well, I say he shall not die!” Celegorm exclaimed, leaping to his feet and beginning to pace in the small garden. “Beren shall have what he desires, if a son of Fëanor can make it so.”

“What is your desire?” Lúthien asked Beren, placing her hand over his. “You know that I would go whithersoever you wish. We could go far away into the Southlands and there live out your life in peace.”

“I would not have it said of me that I stole Thingol’s daughter away like a thief and subjected her to harsh and cruel privations in uncivil places,” Beren said. “I said I would bring him a Silmaril in my hand, and this I will do, or die in the attempt.”

Celegorm stopped pacing and stood in front of Beren, stock-still. For a moment he pondered, then spoke swiftly, “You said that you would bring a Silmaril to him in your hand? What were the exact words?

”’When next we meet, I shall hold a Silmaril in my hand, for you have not looked the last upon Beren son of Barahir,’” Lúthien quoted.

Celegorm smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “You do not have to give him the Silmaril, only show it to him. Together, we will win the Silmarils back from the Dark Foe, the three of us.”

Huan barked sharply at this. “Sorry, Huan,” Celegorm said. “The four of us!”

Once Beren was at his full strength, Celegorm was eager to be gone. Lúthien and Beren together went to Finrod, and he, nothing loath, gave them everything they named as needful for the journey. Celegorm, for his part, went to his brother, and commissioned secret tools, the uses of which he would not name.

They set out on an early morning of spring, with only King Finrod, Curufin, and Celebrimbor to see them off. For long moments, Curufin and Celegorm whispered to each other words in Quenya that Lúthien could not understand, and Beren could not hear.

Celebrimbor, at the last minute, handed Beren a short stout blade. “This sword was forged in Mithrim before the Sun arose,” he said. “It has a special quality: it will glow with a light that only the bearer can see, if Orcs or other creatures of foul intent be near. It was made by my father for me, and now I give it to you.”

“I do not have the words to thank you for this,” Beren said.

“Keep my madcap uncle safe, and that will be all the thanks I need,” Celebrimbor replied.

Beren smiled, looking over at Celegorm, who was speaking earnestly to Curufin. “I will, if I am able.”

At last, Celegorm turned, giving his brother a final hug, and then one to his nephew. Finrod said farewell to Lúthien, looking uncertain. “All paths are dark,” he said, “but I feel in my heart that though the road be long, I have not looked my last upon any of you.”

“May it be so!” Lúthien said.

Celegorm smiled brightly, throwing a careless arm around both Beren and Lúthien. “Until we meet again, cousin,” he said.

Just like that they began their journey. After a moment, Celegorm let them both go and moved ahead, taking the lead. Lúthien with Huan next to her walked behind him, and Beren brought up the rear, a hand on the blade Celebrimbor gave him.

“We shall skirt along the borders of Doriath,” Celegorm said as they camped that evening, “then up through the Forest of Brethil and into Dimbar, then through the Pass of Anoch to Rivil’s Well.”

“The land about Rivil’s Well is known to me,” Beren said, “for I ranged as an outlaw between Ladros in the east and Rivil in the west. There are many hidden passes down onto the plain from Dorthonion, though the Enemy has spied out all ways long since. Still, we may reach Anfauglith unnoticed.”

“We may,” Lúthien said, “though it’s best to be prepared. No lands are safe in these days, except where my mother keeps the borders.”

The two Elves had little need of sleep, and so Beren slept without fear at night, trusting them and Huan to keep full watch. The nights were fair and the days cool but not cold.

At night as they sat wakeful, watching Beren sleep, Celegorm and Lúthien spoke together of their lives and the journeys each had made. Lúthien, before the Girdle was set, had ranged far and wide, travelling in Dorthonion, Himlad, and Nan Elmoth, and even as far as the Blue Mountains. Celegorm told her of Valinor and the shining city of Tirion upon Túna, and of the great journeys he made with his family far into the north and south of Aman.

After many days of travel, they crossed the River Sirion and entered into Dimbar. Now they were near indeed to Doriath, and Lúthien shivered as she looked into the trees of the forest of Neldoreth. “Once I had such joy among them,” she said, “but no longer. I would be gone from here as soon as we may.”

Hastening their pace, they crossed the elf-road that led through Nan Dungortheb swiftly, and headed into the Pass of Anoch, hard by the Crissaegrim. Beren began to tell his companions some of his adventures as an outlaw in this region.

Dorthonion was a dark place, full of wolves and giant bats and who knew what else. On their second night, not too far from Rivil’s Well, they flushed out and killed two wolves, a black one and a fierce white one, and also a giant vampire bat.

“Now, this,” Lúthien said, pulling out her scissors and thread, “I can do something with.”

Under her orders Beren and Celegorm stripped the skins from the wolves and let them dry hanging in a tree all that night. As Beren slept and Celegorm kept watch, she fashioned the bat-hame into a pair of wings and a hood for herself, fitting neatly over the cloak made from her hair.

In the morning, she stood before them, and it was only by her light laughter that they could tell it was indeed Lúthien herself. Taking the wings off, she bade them come and help with the wolfskins. Beren took the black wolf-hame for his own, and Celegorm the white, and soon by Lúthien’s arts there stood two wolves and a giant bat, with Huan lurking in the background. The only tells that they were not wolves and bat in truth were the light in Celegorm’s eyes and the sweet scent of Lúthien.

Now they could cover the ground more swiftly. Down into a deep hidden pass they went, emerging in the night on the plains of Anfauglith. There they rested for a brief time, and Lúthien bade Beren sleep, for it was the last time he could sleep before they came to Angband. Weary beyond weariness, he cast himself on her cloak and fell into dreams for a while.

Celegorm sat watching Beren, his eyes wistful. When Lúthien sat down next to him, laying her hand on his arm, he started at her touch but turned to her.

“You do not have to go into Angband,” she said, and he shook his head.

“I was about to say the same to you,” he said. “I think I have to go. For good or ill, my heart is bound to Beren and I will see it through.”

“I am no different,” Lúthien said.

“Save that he loves you in return,” Celegorm said, the pain that was hidden in his eyes coming to the fore for a moment.

“But he does!” Lúthien said in surprise, trying to keep her voice soft. “Did you not know? He does love you in return. He loves us both.”

Celegorm gave Lúthien a shocked glance. “I knew such a thing was possible….” His voice trailed off. After a moment he began to speak again. “My grandfather loved two. Am I so like him, then?”

Lúthien smiled. “Are you?” she said softly.

Celegorm covered his face with his hands and sat for a long moment, before letting them fall and turning to face her fully. “I think I may be, for it is not just Beren who has drawn my eyes, or my heart.”

Lúthien lifted her hand, and gently traced the curve of Celegorm’s face, smiling all the while. “I, too,” she said only.

Before the sun rose, the four of them were on their way again, clad in fur and bat-hame. For a long time they ran, paying no heed to the horrors of bones and broken things that lay upon Anfauglith. Dust rose in the wind, whirling about. The sun was veiled behind cloud. No living thing save themselves could be seen.

Within sight of the great gates of Angband, they paused, a tiny group of fur and feathers huddled beneath great rocks, unremarked. There was no sign of a watch upon the ramparts, but that did not mean there was none.

Huan it was who ventured forward to test the barriers. The gates themselves were not open, but there was a little postern door, off to the side, that showed potential. He raced back to the group and for the first time spoke with words, telling them of what he had seen.

It was now the hour of sunset, and in the lowering dark near the Gates, there came a slow growl. Carcharoth, who roamed across Anfauglith by day, returned to his dark master’s home at sunset and there waited, guarding the gates by night. It was he who sniffed them out, the smell of Dog and Wolf mingled, and the indefinable sweetness that hung about Lúthien at all times.

Like silent shadows, Beren, Lúthien, and Celegorm slipped to the postern door, and there Celegorm took one of the tools Curufin made for him, and applied it to the lock, turning it carefully so as not to make a noise. In the distance, Huan bayed, drawing Carcharoth off, leading him a chase through the dusty night across Anfauglith.

The door unlocked without a sound, and without a sound Beren and Lúthien slipped through, Celegorm following to lock it again behind them. He donned again the hame of the white wolf, and slowly, now taking the rearguard, followed Beren and Lúthien down into the depths of Angband.

Down and down and down they went, slinking like curs, flapping like bats. Beren, whose heart would have failed him more than once, took courage from the nearness of Lúthien at his shoulder and of Celegorm behind him. They passed many doors and passageways that opened off the corridor, some ripe with stink, some blowing hot sulphurous air out, some full of the screams of the tortured. All the hallway was full of filth that had never been cleaned, from old bones to rotting meat to worse things. Beren had to be careful where he set his feet.

At length the space opened out into a vast hall, and the ground became level. In the distance a towering shape rose up: a throne with a dark figure seated upon it. He wore a tall crown and in that crown three great lights were set. Beside him, Beren felt Celegorm tense. If not for Lúthien’s hands upon both their backs, Celegorm might have sprung toward Morgoth, abandoning their plans.

And yet, their plans? What were those plans but to creep slowly forward and trust to hope? It seemed hours they were walking toward the great throne of the Dark Lord, dodging past other wolves and bats, past Orcs and Balrogs and all manner of evil creatures. A time or two Beren glimpsed out of the corner of his eye Elven and Mannish slaves scurrying about, a defeated look on their faces. Once or twice Celegorm seemed to recognise a face and whined low in his throat, mourning.

Despite the time it seemed to take to walk there, when they were standing beneath Morgoth’s very throne, it seemed to have all been far too quick. There they were, helpless beneath the throne of the Great Enemy, and there was no thought that Beren could grasp. He hardly retained his wits, and only had the courage to slink down beneath the throne, Celegorm following, burying his muzzle against Beren’s side in a wolflike caress.

Lúthien, meantime, flew upwards on her airy bat’s wings, until she was all but within Morgoth’s reach. This part they had not planned out — or rather, they had left it to Lúthien, who simply raised an eyebrow and said that she feared no Dark Lord.

With one swift movement she cast her bat-hame from her, keeping the wings, and floated there before the Great Foe of the World.

A gasp went up from the crowd in the hall. Morgoth shook his head, staring.

Before he could speak, Lúthien did. “Great Lord,” she said, her clear sweet voice ringing through the hall, “I have come that I might look upon the face of the mightiest Lord of Arda. I am Lúthien, daughter of Melian and Thingol, and I am told that I have some modest skill at minstrelsy. If you, my Lord, will accept my song, I would be honoured to sing for you.”

It was Celegorm’s turn to pull Beren back, before he could throw himself bodily at Lúthien. “Silence. Be still,” he said softly, pulling Beren close.

“What is she doing?” he whispered fiercely into Celegorm’s fur. “He’s going to have her seized and tortured.”

“No,” Celegorm said. “No, he won’t. Wait and see.”

Morgoth looked at her for a long heart-piercing moment. “Sing then, Lúthien, Melian’s daughter,” he said. “Sing, and make me forget awhile my cares, and I will let you live.”

Lúthien bowed gracefully before him, and began. Slow and sweet she sang, her body moving with the music in a dance such as Angband had never seen. She sang of the wind in the trees, and of the sweet caress of the night air, and of the music of water, notes dropping deep, one by one, into a silver pool. She sang the song of the nightingale, and the dawn chorus of a hundred birds twittered in her verse.

Morgoth, at first, reached out for her, but failed to grasp her, for she sprang from him, flying into the far corner of the room. From far away her voice came now, and it was weighted with sleep, such a deep and dreamless sleep, dark as the Void, impenetrable as the Night beyond all nights.

All that rabble in the hall lay down, closing their eyes, and one by one drifted into sleep. Beren and Celegorm clung together, still as stone, and Beren would have succumbed to sleep along with the rest had Celegorm not raised his face and kissed him, sending what felt like lightning down his spine.

Morgoth blinked, eyes heavy-lidded, and Lúthien flew nearer, throwing her dark cloak of hair, laden with a spell of sleep, over his face. With a crash he slid from the throne, crown tumbling to the ground, rolling over the floor.

Celegorm and Beren abandoned their wolf-hames and slid out from under the throne, Beren still flushed and tingling, while Lúthien continued to sing her sleeping spell and hold the cloak over Morgoth’s face. Beren dared a glance at Celegorm’s face but it was set, focused, determined, now. Drawing the tools Curufin made him from his belt, Celegorm quickly set to work removing the Silmarils.

Beren drew his blade, glowing blue in that dark hall, and watched for any signs of movement, standing over Celegorm as he worked swiftly. One Silmaril came away, and Celegorm hid it in a little pocket of his clothing, near his heart. The second Silmaril came away, and Celegorm handed it to Beren. It was about the size of his fist, and glowed brightly in the darkness. Quickly Beren plunged it deep into a pocket of his jerkin. It was warm against him, but not hot, and there was no pain.

Celegorm freed the third Silmaril and just as it came loose, the tool that Curufin made broke, sending shards of metal every which way. One of them hit Morgoth in the upper thigh, causing him to groan in his sleep. In a panic, Celegorm shoved the last Silmaril deep into his pocket with the other one and held out his hand to Lúthien, who whisked the cloak away from Morgoth.

They ran back up the long slope, Beren in the lead, his sword out, glowing bright to show him the way. Back at the postern door, Celegorm scrambled for his lockpicking tools but one was missing, dropped somewhere along the long corridor.

It was then that Lúthien and Celegorm sang together, and though Lúthien was weary, she put forth all her strength. The lock snapped, the sound ringing and echoing through the halls. Already they could hear the sound of pursuit.

Hastily pushing through the door, Celegorm in the lead, they saw an epic battle unfolding between Huan and Carcharoth. Both were growling, springing, biting at each other. Both were bloody, though Carcharoth was the more wounded.

Carcharoth saw Celegorm appear first, and sprang for him. Beren, just to the side, leaped forward, and the Leap of Beren is renowned among Men and Elves to this day. Forward he sprang, sword out, to defend Celegorm, and caught the evil wolf in the chest with a mortal blow, though with his last breath Carcharoth snapped and bit at Beren’s shoulder. Both sank to the ground, bleeding.

Lúthien, though her strength was near an end, staunched the wound in Beren’s shoulder with her cloak. Behind them they could hear the yells of Orcs, drawing ever nearer. She gathered him in her arms.

“Huan, can you bear us both?” she asked.

Huan spoke with words for the second time. “Gladly will I carry you both.”

Shrugging off her wings, she handed them to Celegorm, who put them on. “Then fly fast and far we must. But where shall we go for aid?”

“To my cousin Fingon,” Celegorm said. “He is the closest.”

Over the burned plain Huan ran and Celegorm flew, leading them on and ever and anon turning to watch their pursuers. If they but knew it, they retraced the way that Fingolfin rode, and some virtue in his passing kept them safe. At last the towers of Barad Eithel rose in sight.

By this time Beren was barely conscious, and Lúthien hardly much better. Celegorm flew ahead, knocking urgently on the gates, begging for help.

Fortune smiled upon them, for Maedhros of Himring was there, having only just arrived that day. Together he and Fingon the King rode down the long slope from the castle to the gates, and greeted Celegorm with astonishment.

“My brother, what trouble have you got yourself into now?” Maedhros exclaimed.

For answer Celegorm withdrew one of the Silmarils from his pocket.

“Oh, nothing. Just fulfilling our Oath, that’s all,” he said casually, and threw it to Maedhros, who caught it with his one hand, stunned and speechless.

At that moment, Huan ran up to the gates, and Lúthien raised her head, looking up at Fingon with a silent plea in her eyes. He leaped down from his horse and rushed over to them. “Get a healer, right away!” he commanded, and himself took Beren from Lúthien’s arms. Then he looked out at the army in pursuit, now very near the gates. “Call our soldiers out for battle!”

The horns blew as the gates of the city slammed shut. The black tide of Orcs and other foul creatures broke like a wave upon the smooth stone. Before long, Fingon, Maedhros, and all their soldiers were engaged in battle.

Beren, though not by any means fatally wounded, had lost a fair bit of blood, and was soon settled in a wide comfortable bed within the castle, and given the best of everything. Lúthien rested beside him, one hand over his. Huan was weary too, and lay on a bearskin rug in the same room, panting happily, his own small wounds dressed, and food and drink given to him.

Celegorm, neither wounded nor weary, was in his element. Lúthien’s wings bore him high above the enemy as he shot them full of arrows, killing their captains before they ever knew what slew them. Ere long the battle was over and the white Moon shone high above the city walls. Of the army Morgoth sent, not one returned to tell the tale.

After taking the bat-wings off and cleansing himself from the battle, Celegorm returned to find Beren and Lúthien still sleeping. Beren’s eyes were shut, but Lúthien stirred at the touch of Celegorm’s hand. “Lay down with us,” she whispered, and Celegorm obeyed.

In the morning, Beren woke to find them both looking down at him, and thought he was still dreaming. “Stay with me,” he said, hardly knowing what he was saying, only knowing that he had to say it.

“Always,” Lúthien murmured, while Celegorm simply put a hand over where theirs were clasped together. Beren sat up in bed, groaning with pain, and Lúthien kissed him, smiling. “You will be well soon enough,” she said.

Celegorm bent forward, and Beren placed a hand on his cheek. “Will you not kiss me too?” he asked.

“I will,” Celegorm answered, pressing his mouth to Beren’s, slow and sweet.

“And won’t you kiss each other?” Beren said, laughter in his voice, clearly anticipatory.

Lúthien leaned toward Celegorm over Beren, smiling, and kissed Celegorm with tentative wonder. “I am the most fortunate of Men,” Beren said, watching them.

Later that day, Beren rose from bed, and they paid a visit to the High King in his throne room, Lord Maedhros standing by his side, Silmaril bound to his brow. There the tale was told in full.

“We must be ready, for Morgoth will surely come in vengeance,” Maedhros said. “I will return to Himring as soon as I may, and I charge you, brother, with taking the other two Silmarils somewhere far away. Keep them safe.”

Lúthien stepped forward. “We will guard them,” she said. “I have a place in mind, near the Blue Mountains, an island known to few.”

Two days after that, with Beren’s shoulder healing, they departed along with Huan, heading southwards on horses as swift as they could. In one week, they reached the borders of Doriath, and there all three passed quickly under the trees, making their way directly to Menegroth.

Lúthien walked between Beren and Celegorm, both her hands in theirs, and as they approached Thingol’s throne, Beren held up a Silmaril in his left hand. Celegorm, meanwhile, kept the one he carried concealed in an inner pocket.

“My lord, you bade me show you a Silmaril in my hand to take Lúthien as my bride. Here it is!” Beren proclaimed, and the light of it cut dazzling sparkles on the roof of the throne room, set every jewel burning bright, turned Thingol’s Treelit and Melian’s Maia-bright eyes to flamelight.

“You have returned victorious, I see,” Thingol said, standing up and holding out his hand. “Your bride is won.”

“I never promised to give it to you,” Beren said, steady and calm. “And she was not yours to give away.”

For a moment it looked like a fight would ensue, but Melian took Thingol’s hand and whispered to him words that no one could hear, and slowly he sat back down.

“Father, Mother,” Lúthien said, “I can no longer remain in Doriath. My fate leads me elsewhere.”

Melian looked into Lúthien’s eyes, bowing her head in acknowledgement, but Thingol simply pressed his lips together, not saying a word. Lúthien waited a moment, looking at him, but then nodded and turned, leading Beren and Celegorm out of Menegroth and away from Doriath, Huan following.

It is said that there is an island in a river in the south of Beleriand, and there on it shines Ever-light, the Light that shone before the Sun and Moon. Upon that island dwell three: an Elf with silver hair, grey eyes burning, a mortal Man, dark-haired and tall with a kind smile, and their Lady, who dances in the Light.

That Light the Darkness can never touch, not while the three are together, and they have been together forever.

---

Chapter End Notes

The title is from the song Triad.

You both stand there, your long hair flowing
Your eyes alive, your mind still growing
Saying to me -- "What can we do now that we both love you?"
I love you too -- I don't really see
Why can't we go on as three?