“Nor shall anything of my realm endure…”

The trees sighed tirelessly in deep joy after moons of silent mourning. The younger beeches sang in every passing breeze and the alders shook their dark cones, while the willows whispered more discreetly among them and even the oldest oaks arose from their deep slumber to greet the good news. Lúthien was returned to the moon-lit glades, and she had brought back hope and happiness to the forest.

Not to everyone, a passing nightingale thought as he watched the glistening silhouette of an elven woman who hurried across the forest, fleeing the fires and the music that lighted up the great sward before the doors of Menegroth, where the people rejoiced after Beren took the hand of Lúthien before the throne of her father.

It was that time of the day when purple shadows turn to black as they unfold and stretch out of their shelters, when the forest stands stone still as the nightingales sing the sun goodbye in their heart-wrenching, beautiful voices. But not even Melian’s nightingales could match the otherworldly voice that rose in mourning that evening, piercing the forest with the despair of an orphaned cub, of a wounded bear, of a stranded wolf calling to its pack.

So they just sat and listened, and mourned in sympathy.

And then, silence.

Slowly the night breeze arrived from the highlands of the north, heedless of the joy and pain that mingled in the hidden land of Doriath, bringing in its trail the echoes of fear and doom…and the frightening howls of a mighty, possessed wolf that approached them like a ravenous fire. The forest creatures ran into shelter, leaving the grieving lady to the sole company of the still yawning owls and the pale stars.

~*~*~*~

“My lady…”

She glided around, composed, to face the pale, worn out, aged man.

Silence stretched between them.

“I am so sorry…”

“You seem not so to my eyes. Besides, why would you?” The voice was colder than the freezing winters in Dorthonion, yet the man knew enough of ice to hear the faintest cracking of thaw making its way to the surface.

He lowered his eyes and waited.

“You won what you sought and kept what you risked, while losing nothing in the game, except for a life and a jewel that did not belong to you. Not a high price for such a high reward,” she observed scathingly.

The man winced, wounded deeper than in his pride.

“I did not mean that to happen,” he argued, pain flooding his hoarse voice.

“You would have forsaken your quest, had you known that your happiness would cost him his realm and his life?” She taunted him mercilessly, fixing him in a stern, demanding glance.

An owl hooted in triumph. The leaves in a nearby tree shook. The man sighed deeply.

“I knew not what Thingol asked of me, or the doom that weighed upon his conditions,” the man admitted humbly, in a sad voice “I am sorry that I was the cause of his death.”

“Do not presume to have been cause or motive, fated son of Barahir,” she raged, suddenly not a grieving maid but the proud, fearless daughter of Arafinwë, Nerwen of her people. “You are but a tool of the Valar, caught in a greater net and perhaps marked for a high fate, such as marrying a daughter of the elder kin…But you will also be remembered as the one who demanded the highest toll in repayment for a service not performed by himself,” she accused in a voice that trembled so slightly, laden with unshed tears.

“The oath was freely made…and honestly redeemed.” The man straightened up, suddenly shrouded in that strange dignity that made him an equal even among the greatest of the elven lords. He looked the aggrieved, enraged elven lady in the eye. “It matters not who performed the service, since the oath-maker was generous enough to extend his grace from Barahir to all his kin…and for that he will be praised and his house held in the greatest esteem as long as my line lasts,” he vowed seriously but not without compassion.

“A meagre comfort for those who would choose having him back and alive over the never-ending esteem from your line, long-lived though it may be.” The lady wavered as a young reed caught in a raging storm, shaking with contained grief.

Following a sudden impulse, the man put forth his left hand –his only- and extended his fingers.

“Take it back,” he urged her softly. “The oath was fulfilled and the oath- maker redeemed well beyond his debt. Let it not be said that an unworthy son of a man abuses his privileges.”

The green jewels devised in Valinor that had once glittered on Finarfin’s finger shone now between them in the starlit glade. Galadriel closed her eyes briefly to flee unwanted memories.

“Nor shall anything of my realm endure that a son should inherit.”

Finrod’s words rang again in her ears. Nargothrond still stood, though for how long no one could tell. But there was no heir indeed –and would never be- and the bitterness of that truth wounded her deeply.

“Never again say that he whom he died for was unworthy of the gift,” she barely managed in a teary whisper, placing her cold fingers over the man’s and closing them over her family heirloom. “Keep it,” she whispered, “and make sure that it is passed down your line along with its meaning, so that his sacrifice will not be in vain. I may need a token to recognize your kin in the ages to come,” she added with kind but piercing irony.

“I will keep it by your grace and in memory of his deed,” he answered, bowing in gratitude. “And this I tell you, for I am no stranger to foresight either, that your line and mine will become entwined as these serpents are, and that by his sacrifice a great good will come to Middle-earth.”

“And thus you bind me into your doom, son of Barahir. So be it,” she laughed bitterly, “although my heart tells me that it will only bring me more grief…”

“And also a deep joy, my lady, for they are seldom found apart from each other, it is said.”

“It may be so,” she admitted gently, “for here you are, rejoicing in your happiness while I mourn the price… Go to your wife and enjoy what time you are left, Beren,” she said then seriously, but with tender compassion. “For both happiness and grief are short-lived for your kin.” She straightened then, and tilted her head, as if listening to a faint rumour that came from the trees. “Your fate is not yet fulfilled,” she warned him, her voice again laden with grief.

“I will meet it when it reaches me,” he affirmed with a self-assurance that made her smile sadly. “And meanwhile I will not forget to whom I owe this life that I have,” he promised, bowing deeply before her and disappearing silently into the night.

~*~*~*~

The owls were returned to their comfortable trunks and the nightingales got ready to greet Arien back in their sweet melodious voices when a soft, poignant song echoed in the forest and rippled with a sadness that was beyond despair.

Muted again by the overwhelming feeling that flooded the air, the nightingales hurried to the secluded glade whence the voice came.

The elven lady sat there against the mighty, forked trunk of an old beech, held in the comforting embrace of her silver tree and crying as she sang, the birds noticed with deep compassion, moved by the depth of emotion that seeped from her hopeless song.

“I hope that he has found redemption through that bitter defeat… I would have not had the strength to surrender my life in exchange for that of a Secondborn,” she sobbed quietly.

“And I am only too glad that you did not even try,” her lord whispered in a deep, comforting voice that echoed of tears as well.

“I do not blame him wholly,” she sighed sadly. “Surely he has a high fate before him, but I cannot rejoice in their happiness, that was so dearly bought…” She surrender to his tight embrace and hid her face on his chest to let go of her burning tears.

“I cannot remain here,” she whispered after a while, lifting a tear streaked face and meeting grey eyes that mourned silently not just Finrod’s sad fate.

“I always wanted to cross the Mountains,” her lord nodded softly, kissing the garland of radiance that crowned her head and raising them both to their feet. “Perhaps it is time that we started east, my lady.”

A/N Blame the muses for their timing.This takes place in Menegroth right after BEren and Luthien returned from MOrgoth's den and before Carcharoth reached Doriath. The title is taken from Finrod's premonition.

The correct sequence for this ongoing series would be now: Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 1 and Chapter 2. Apologies for the chaos.