Title: Beren's Tale
Author: Endaewen
Rating: PG
Fandom: The Silmarillion
Disclaimer: All the characters and settings as well as the events described belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and the Tolkien Estates.
Prompt: #37. Crumbling
Story Number: 11/100
Wordcount: 1051
Character: Luthien Tinuviel
Summary: Written for the Arda100 LiveJournal community, the Doom'n'Gloom prompt set.
Note: Quotes (in 'bold') are from Of Beren and Luthien from The Silmarillion.

Slowly, Beren was becoming a part of the life of Doriath. Once he had been accepted as Luthien's suitor by Thingol, and he had healed from the wounds inflicted by the great wolf, Carcharoth, he began to make a place for himself among the elves, and was beginning to join in the everyday events. Often after the night-meal was finished they sat around the fire in the great hall of Mengroth, telling tales. Generally, as the group was made up mostly of the warriors and hunters, the tales were those of hunting exploits or deeds done in battle. Sometimes though, others would tell tales too. Occasionally, Thingol would talk of the great migration Westwards, or even of his visit to Aman. Very rarely, Melian would tell a tale to the group of the creation of Arda.

Though he sat there as a part of the group, and had for the past several days, usually seated beside Thingol's daughter Luthien, Beren spoke little most nights, and had yet to recount a tale to the group, though he had been asked. Usually there was a slightly sad and thoughtful look on his face at these times.

Tonight his thoughts must have been more evident on his face than they had been in the past, for Luthien leaned over and spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb the current tale teller. “If you are not happy here, we don't have to stay. Leaving won't cause any great offense.”

He shook his head and replied equally softly. “No, I'm all right, it reminds me of my father, that's all. We used to sit and tell each other tales and stories like this, especially during the long winter evenings. Sometimes it would be like tonight, boasting about a hunting triumph or some deed from the last fight against orcs and Morgoth's other servants. Other nights would take on a more serious tone, and one of the men would recount the tales of one of the great battles, or a tale he had heard from the Eldar. Once in a very great while, Barahir, my father would tell of his rescue of Finrod, from whence he got the ring.” Involuntarily almost, Beren gestured with his remaining hand, showing the ring in question.

Although his speech was still quiet, the others in the room had fallen silent in an attempt to better hear him and his story. When Beren fell silent at that point, one of those listening spoke up, startling him, as he had not realized, lost in his memory, that he had become the recipient of the listener's attention. “Will you not tell us of what your life was like?”

Luthien's nod seconded the request. Though she had often heard tales and rumor of his deeds before his arrival in Doriath, as had the others in the room, Beren had told her little of that time, and she hadn't wanted to press him too much. Now seemed to be a good time to learn more of her love and his past, directly from himself.

The sole man looked around the room at the Eldar present, and finally, not having seen any mockery, only genuine interest, he began to speak, at firsts hesitant and somewhat uncomfortably, until he got into the flow of his story. As he spoke, Beren kept his attention focused on Luthien. “We were a close group. How could we not be, hiding from Morgoth for so long? Despite the life of the outlaw, some of us had wives and families. Although that was what kept us going, it was also our downfall. When we were finally found, the group was living on the heights of Dorthonion. Morgoth had captured the wife of one of the men, Gorlim and used her as his method of inducement. Because of this, he was able to discover our location.”

Here Beren paused for a minute and bowed his head. Despite the fact that it had been several years in the past that the events he was describing had occurred, talking about them was harder than he had thought, and this was the first time he had been able to tell of the events, not having had anyone to talk to safely until he met Luthien in the previous months.

The listeners remained respectfully silent until he began to speak again, still looking down. “Of the entire group, I was the only survivor, and that was only because I had been away from the camp at the time of the attack. I returned to find the others had been attacked and-” here his voice broke and when he continued his tale, Beren had jumped ahead in time. “Once I had buried my father and the others, I went after the ones who had attacked the camp; Morgoth's orcs.”

“They had taken the ring Finrod had given to Barahir as token that they had been successful in their task. Something must have been guiding me, for I was able to recover their trophy and escape the group unharmed.”

Beren continued to speak, telling of the years he spent alone in the wilds, and of his occasional returns to the site of his father's cairn, only pausing when one of the listeners added a log to the fire as it burned down. “That I could not do often, for fear that the servants of the Enemy would be watching it, waiting for my return. When I could, I did, to make sure that it was not crumbling away like the shelters that were our homes are.”

He ended his tale with his decision to turn to the south and towards the Hidden Kingdom as it became too dangerous for the man to remain living in the regions around Dorthonion. “That I wish not to speak of, for the horror is too great for me to ever wish to think of again,” he said.

When his tale had ended, Beren had been speaking for at least an hour, and he found that he was holding the hand of his lady, though he had not noticed her taking his one hand at some point in his narrations. The end of his tale seemed to signal the end of the evening, with none of the others taking up the mantle of tale-teller.