OF ELVES AND MEN

All Elves and Men in this tale are part of the legacy that J.R.R.Tolkien left to those of us who love his works. A special thank you I offer to Christopher Tolkien for his monumental efforts in bringing forth The Silmarillion, the twelve-volume set of the Histories of Middle Earth (HoME), and numerous linguistic treasures.

When Elves and Men met they had much to learn of each other; both of joy and sorrow.

THE PASSING OF BËOR - Chapter One

Light played over the elf reclining on the floor before the fire, propped up with several plush cushions, scroll in hand. Long golden hair unbound, clad in a simple blue tunic and soft cream trousers, barefoot, a goblet of pale yellow wine to hand, he was the picture of youthful ease; yet he had seen many times both glad and terrible.

A quick tap upon the heavy oaken door surprised him from his reverie. Without further delay the door swung open to admit an elf in a swirl of floor-length green over-robe, dark hair bound with silver ornaments, soft-soled grey shoes, a signet gleaming upon his hand. Puzzlement and concern written on his fair features caused the golden elf to sit up abruptly.

"Bëor?"

That single word passed between them, though filled with meaning beyond a mere questioning. At a nod from the dark elf-lord, the golden one flowed effortlessly to his feet, the scroll discarded unheeded in his haste. His friend had not appeared at meals for the past two days, which was in itself unusual, though he had sent a message that he wished to keep to his rooms.

Edrahil caught Finrod’s arm as he attempted to brush past. With a worried frown he spoke, "He fades."

"What say you, Edrahil?" Finrod retorted mystified, "Not three days hence we rode out together. No wounding he received nor was he deeply grieved."

"Ai, a thing beyond our healing takes him. Fëa struggles with hröa seeking to depart. Yet calmly he awaits you, untroubled by this unseemly thing." Edrahil stated in confusion.

As they traversed the short distance to the rooms of Bëor, the two discussed this latest anomaly regarding their friend.

"True, his hair has changed from deep brown to pale grey and his skin has taken the appearance of a wizened apple, but unchanged has been his eagerness for life," stated Finrod.

"How then to explain this sudden weakening, lord?" responded Edrahil.

Casting a deeply troubled glance at his steward, Finrod merely shook his head.

"Healers have attended him to no avail; perhaps he strayed too near a powerful working unaware," suggested Edrahil.

"Have you spoken with him?" asked Finrod after a brief silence.

"A cryptic 'it is my time' is all he offered, and then a request for your presence," said the perplexed Edrahil. "Shall I attend you, lord?"

Having reached the chamber, Finrod hesitated , then turned to his steward and requested softly, "You, and your harp , if you will."

With a slight nod, Edrahil turned away, moving swiftly toward his own chambers.

A quiet rap on the door alerted an elf within who admitted the casually attired King of Nargothrond. Stepping quickly to the bedside of his friend, he dropped to his knees, sitting back on his heels. Bëor rested easily on the low bed, a peaceful expression on his aged face. He smiled gladly when his eyes opened to find his liege-lord and dear friend at his side.

"My lord, I thank you for coming," said Bëor.

"My friend," said Finrod, "You look well, though other tale have I heard of late."

With a sigh Bëor spoke quietly, "The time of my passing has come, though delayed far beyond my hopes. Among my people it is cause for both grief and sharing of memories of the one who departs."

"You choose to leave Nargothrond?” Finrod asked in dismay. "Have we been remiss in hospitality or friendship? Has the longing for your own people overwhelmed you?"

Bëor smiled tenderly at the puzzled King. "My lord, my leave-taking is not because I weary of your hospitality.

Finrod waited patiently for Bëor to continue.

“Will you aid me?” Bëor asked.

“You have but to ask and if it be within my power gladly I shall do this thing,” Finrod responded.

Edrahil entered unobtrusively and taking a stool against the wall began quietly to tune his harp.

Bëor gazed with concern at this, his liege; how does one explain dying of old age to an ever-young elf king. At last with a heavy sigh he began with slow words, as if to a child. “Among some of my people it is a time of release; our bodies are not as those of you and your people. The house in which we dwell ceases to protect and shelter us. As did my father before me so shall I also depart Arda of my own willing and seek not to await the utter ruin of the structure,” he paused at the stricken look on Finrod’s fair face.

Finrod stared in disbelief and could find no words.

“Surely you have seen the changes, my friend?” Bëor stated calmly, “and my days have been longer than many and filled with joy in the knowing of you and your people. With no regrets shall I leave, for though we found not the land without Dark, I have seen in you a new Light that I had not thought to find. Your song led my people out of sorrow and into hope. With peace I shall soon enter onto the long road.”

Harp and voice faltered as Edrahil, too, grasped the finality of the words spoken by this trusted Man. Placing his harp to the side he joined his lord at the bedside.

Eyes glistening with unshed tears Finrod said, “You have not spoken of this before. Is it a hidden knowledge of the Edain?”

Bëor reached out a hand and laid it on the shoulder of the King. “My liege, my dear friend…” Bëor looked away from the expression of hurt on those youthful faces to calm his thoughts.

After several long empty moments Bëor began again, “When first you came to us we named you Nom, Wisdom in our tongue, for we were astonished that a beardless youth should have such infinite knowledge. Songs of lands unknown to us and events long past we believed were passed from father to son down the ages as are our own and you were as brief-lived as we.”

Again he paused and with a pleading look continued, “At first I knew not that you aged more slowly than the mountains, but after, I had not the words to give to you.”

Finrod could not bear thinking on soon parting from this Man who spent his short years in service to one not even of his own kindred. Bright as starlight a single tear trailed slowly down his flawless cheek.

Bëor went on, “Counsel from kin in messages urged me home before my leave-taking, and all warned of revealing our brevity of life; we do not want your pity nor your scorn. So I heeded the advice and where I should have trusted, I failed to keep faith with you.”

He struggled to rise. Edrahil helped him from the bed only to find him sagging to the floor, not in weariness, but in supplication. Bëor with his head bowed and arms outstretched begged of his dear friend, “Forgive my concealment in this matter, my lord. Too often when our people dwell overlong on the departure it becomes a great fear as we have no knowledge of our path. For some while I have felt the time drawing near, but delayed. But for the attentiveness of your healers, I might not have had courage enough to ask your presence and so passed beyond alone, as it is sometimes less grievous to those staying.” With a hint of a smile Bëor went on, “Lord Edrahil is exceptionally devoted to your well-being; even extending it to the protection of your joy. He notices the merest shift in kin or friend and seeks ever to shield you.”

The elf being discussed averted his eyes from his lord, but denied not the charge laid on him.

Finrod clasped both Bëor’s hands before speaking. For a time his roiling emotions undid him, but with great concentration he mastered himself and spoke the words Bëor needed to hear, “Bëor, naught of forgiveness is needed between us, my friend.”

Rising, Finrod lifted Bëor easily and placed him on the bed; one long-fingered hand brushing the grey locks from Bëor’s face.

“Wish you private faring forth?” Finrod queried reluctantly.

“You are ever welcome, my lord, but I would not trouble you if it would be too grievous,” Bëor said wistfully.

“I offer harp and song on your journey,” said Edrahil softly, “and my presence should it be your will.”

‘Gladly would my heart take wing with the sound of elven music.” Then in an earnest voice Bëor added, “My treasure I leave in your hands, Lord Edrahil, guard him well; better even, I am certain, than I ever could.”

Tears slipped down the elf-lord’s face as he picked up his harp and began to play a haunting threnody. Bëor lay back with a deep breath to listen, his eyes closing slowly, a smile upon his wrinkled face.

Almost inaudibly Bëor spoke, “A merry song, if you can Master Harper, to light my path.”

Edrahil paused, bemused at the request, then began playing a song composed by Finrod reflecting the sheer delight he felt at his first meeting with Men; wonderment, marveling, curiosity, and above all, love for these, the Other Children of Ilúvatar.

Finrod, immortal elven king, and Bëor, dying mortal liege, remembered that night filled with song, mysteries revealed, the dawn crowned with an unimagined radiance.

Bëor whispered low, “It is time.”

Finrod swallowing a sob replied, “Fare thee well, Bëor, friend of elves.”

With a deep slow breath Bëor relaxed into his last rest, while Finrod wept beside him.

*******

Notes:

fëa – roughly equivalent to spirit/soul

hröa – physical body