The Election Farce of Nargothrond: Of Dumbness, Treachery, and Brotherly Love by Dawn Felagund

Chapter 9: Beren Is Impressed

Chapter 9: Beren Is Impressed

Beren son of Barahir who would one day be called Erchamion and Camlost and a whole host of other things stood in the meadow leading to the Narog beside the big hill with his mouth hanging open in awe and his two existing hands hanging empty at his sides. A gnat buzzed inside his mouth, ricocheted off of his teeth, and was expelled again, slightly dizzied but otherwise unharmed. Many were the legends that his father had told of Nargothrond, a realm presided over by the gracious King Finrod, said to be as fair as the sunrise and as wise as a really tall stack of books. Barahir had spoken of the mysterious Elves of Nargothrond, who could enspell and slay a man with a look alone from fire-bright eyes and provocatively wiggling fingers. Beren the Still-two-handed, son of Barahir, could not say that he had not been prepared for the sorcery he'd encountered in Nargothrond, yet nothing in the life of a mortal and decidedly un-magical Man could prepare him for the overwhelming mystique of Finrod's realm.

At times, he heard the guards whispering around him, but he'd yet to catch so much as a glimpse of them. Sometimes he heard snarling that he might have mistaken for snoring in a lesser place. He thrust his father's ring toward the sky before realizing that even the Elves of Nargothrond--marvelous though they be--were probably not so marvelous that they kept watch from the stars, so he waved it around at the trees and the big hill instead. Still, there was no sight of them. "They must be well-hidden indeed!" he exclaimed to himself. "Hiding themselves with camouflage and magic that a humble dullard such as I surely would not understand!"

Suddenly, a shriek erupted from the night around him that sounded eerily like the sound a squirrel makes when it is unexpectedly trod upon by a broad-footed and clumsy Man. Yet there was no arboreal-inclined vermin beneath his foot. Beren jumped and let out a squawk of alarm and waved the ring even harder. The sound seemed to have come from the big hill, but Beren could not be sure as it careened amid the trees and grass and open sky with the same blundering force as a honeybee caught in an empty mead jar. "Curse my subpar, mortal senses!" Beren thought to himself and the alarming noise rollicked and echoed and eventually faded.

Knowing not what else to do, Beren cried out, "I am friend!" hoping that plain, dull honesty would be enough to appease the mysterious and deceptive Eldar of Nargothrond.

Still, none showed themselves, though Beren knew that they must number in the scores and surely surround him on all sides. "They are cloaked in night and shadow itself!" thought Beren with amaze. "I wonder what strange gifts it takes to master such arts! Well, surely, this is not pertinent for one such as I, for never shall I learn them." He paused and tried to see through the night--picking apart the shadows much like an anxious child will worry the fraying threads of a cloth--but the surely hundreds of Elves that surrounded him eluded detection.

Thrusting the ring before him, Beren crept onward.

And from the big hill to the side of him, a stone tumbled down the whole length, top to ground. Beren froze, and the pebble bumped his toe. He would not be fooled. When he knelt to touch it, he would be ambushed, etherized, and bound, and he would be taken as a prisoner before King Finrod. He might lose the ring in his swoon and his only proof of friendship! He clutched the ring harder and ignored the pebble.

"I am friend!" he said again. "Bearing a ring given my father by your King!"

Though whispers continued in the dark, none moved against him. "They excel not only in stealth and deception," thought Beren with awe, "but also in fortitude! Watching a possible enemy creep against me, I would have hoisted myself from hiding by now!"

Beren was indeed impressed by the Elves of Nargothrond.

He crept onward, and the only sound that he could detect with his inferior mortal ears was the whisper of grass bending and breaking beneath his feet. Yet he knew the Elves of Nargothrond surrounded him. He could feel their eyes upon him as he crouched small beneath the big sky. He could feel their ears hearing even the soft susurration of his blood in his veins. He could feel their noses wrinkling at the stench of his too-long-unwashed flesh and oily hair and--

"Halt!"

From where did that come? In a panic, he crouched smaller, and his blood raced faster, and he sweated and stunk even more, and through it all, he waved the ring over his head and called over and over, "I am friend! Friend! Friend!"

From the gray light of morning, a broad-shouldered Elf called Gaerthirith--come to relieve Taltdirith and Gulthirith from duty--strode forth. Beren heard a scampering noise from the hill. Many hands seized him. It seemed like only three pairs but Beren--still very impressed--knew that it must be much, much more.

And that was how Beren came to enter Nargothrond.