Tag: beren

Yet seldom well and outlaw ends;
and Morgoth was a king more strong
than all the world has since in song
recorded: dark athwart the land
reached out the shadow of his hand,
at each recoil returned again;
two more were sent for one foe slain.
New hope was cowed, all rebels killed;
quenched were the fires, the songs were stilled,
tree felled, heath burned, and through the waste
marched the black host of Orcs in haste.

Almost they closed their ring of steel
round Beren; hard upon his heel
now trod their spies; within their hedge
of all aid shorn, upon the edge
of death at bay he stood aghast
and knew that he must die at last,
or flee the land of Barahir,
his land beloved. Beside the mere
beneath a heap of nameless stones
must crumble those once mighty bones,
forsaken by both son and kin,
bewailed by reeds of Aeluin.

In winter’s night the houseless North
he left behind, and stealing forth
the leaguer of his watchful foe
he passed – a shadow on the snow,
a swirl of wind, and he was gone,
the ruin of Dorthonion,
Tarn Aeluin and its water wan,
never again to look upon.
No more shall hidden bowstring sing,
no more his shaven arrows wing,
no more his hunted head shall lie
upon the heath beneath the sky.
The Northern stars, whose silver fire
of old Men named the Burning Briar,
were set behind his back, and shone
o’er land forsaken: he was gone.

Lay of Leithian, Canto III, lines 190-228

Ouch. If you don’t feel for Beren here, have your heart broken at his anguish and dilemma at having to finally abandon not just his only homeland but the grave of his father and family and companions these last nine years, the unmarked grave-mound he built with his own hands and thus the only one to know of its existence, the carrier of their fates and memories, to leave it with no sign of care to be reclaimed by the wilderness …. well, I don’t know what to say to you.

The grief of never returning home.  

Of abandoning the war against Morgoth and how it must feel like a defeat even as his escape is a victory.

That to smoke Beren out from cover, to finally cower him and make him concede a loss in Dorthonion, Morgoth’s forces must literally destroy the very land itself, destroy every tree and bush. That as long as the earth has life to it, it shall sustain and guard its protector. There is something less human and more forest god to Beren in those four years after he loses his father, cousins, and companions.

That Morgoth, to stamp out hope, must stamp out growing things.

I love how Beren is described as he flees: “a shadow on the snow,  a swirl of wind”. He is the intangible, the untouchable, the ethereal.

And the stars at his back. One, that he doesn’t look back after he makes his heart-wrenching decision. But the stars themselves – this is a constellation given another name in The Silmarillion.

“And high in the north as a challenge to Melkor she set the crown of seven mighty stars to swing, Valacirca, the Sickle of the Valar and sign of doom” (p. 48).

The constellation is the symbol and warning that Morgoth will not rest uncontested, be in Utumno or Angband. That his downfall will come.

That though Beren flees now, he flees unbroken and free of the orcs, and he shall return one day with vengeance and victory.

(via squirrelwrangler)

Family and wolves

squirrelwrangler:

As the Great Wolf of Angband lunges toward Elu Thingol, King of Doriath, the fetid breath reeking of poison and blackened meat, thorn splinters and broken spears flying through the air and the screams of his soldiers and the baying of the Hound of Valinor overshadowing all, he has time for one frozen thought. ’This is how Elmo died. My little brother slain by the fell wolf-shapes of the Enemy. And my nephew, too, eaten by a werewolf. Is this the last thing they saw, these teeth. Did he call out for me, a desperate reflex for his big brother to save him?’

Then there is a body between him and the red jaws, saving him. The human, Elu thinks coldly in one part of his mind, like the faint echo from a distant cave, but louder is the part of him that screams, ’Beren, Family, Lúthien’s, Son,“ whispers, ”family, Finrod, son, Elmo, brother,’ and continues to scream as the Great Wolf flings the body aside. Thingol barely hears the snarl of Huan slamming into the wolf, the fury of teeth and claw as two titanic mirror images savage each other in the twilight. He stares at the body crumpled in front of him, the boy covered in blood, the pale face missing that infuriating, arrogant, familiar, oddly-endearing smirk. “Beren,” he calls, taking in the sight of all the blood, crawls towards the boy, shrugs away the hands of his men that try to restrain him and check for his injuries. He doesn’t matter; Beren does. Lúthien’s Beren, his daughter’s love, his new son-in-law, saved my life, son, family, little son little nephew little brother can’t be dead can’t be dead like Elmo is dead. Thingol kneels at Beren’s side, cradles the boy’s face, feels for the heartbeat, ignores the dark red that is seeping into the grey fabric. Behind them are the howls of the Great Wolf and Hound, trumpeting the echo of the wars of the Valar, the titanic struggle from before the mighty spirits’ entry into Arda, and it is nothing but noise.

Beren’s eyes focus finally through the pain and looks up at Thingol. The king is aware he is speaking desperately, yammering to the boy reassurances that the healers will save him, the wounds be cleansed, that Beren will live. That the human was beyond foolish, stupid. Why did he try to hold the wolf off with a spear in one hand, arrogant unthinking boy; didn’t he remember how successful the last attempt had been? Foolish boy who thought he could do the impossible, always so reckless. Elu isn’t even sure if he’s calling Beren by the right name, for there is something wrong with his vision, the face is blurred, and he can’t tell if that bold smirk – ’why is he smiling, that idiot, you never listen, you never listen to me, that’s why Mother and Father have me watch over you constantly, you’ll need a keeper until you’re as tall as me, you’d run off and get yourself snatched up by the Dark Hunters, you’re so reckless’ – belongs to his brother or the human his daughter dragged home.

“You aren’t going to die on me,” Elwë commands, and he knows not who he is truly addressing, only that yet again he will be disobeyed.

“But Carcharoth avoided him, and bursting form the thorns leaped suddenly upon Thingol. Swiftly Beren strode before him with a spear, but Carcharoth swept it aside and felled him, biting at his breast. In that moment Huan leaped from the thicket upon the back of the Wolf, and they fell together fighting bitterly; and no battle of wolf and hound has been like to it, for in the baying of Huan was heard the voice of the horns of Oromë and the wrath of the Valar, but in the howls of Carcharoth was the hate of Morgoth and malice crueller than teeth of steel; and the rocks were rent by their clamour and fell from on high and choked the falls of Esgalduin. There they fought to the death; but Thingol gave no heed, for he knelt by Beren, seeing that he was sorely hurt.”

Now, lo, before his [Carcharoth’s] watchful eyes
a slinking shape he far descries
that crawls into the frowning plain
and halts at gaze, then on again
comes stalking near, a wolvish shape,
haggard, wayworn, with jaws agape;
and o’er it batlike in wide rings
a reeling shadow slowly wings.
Such shapes there oft were seen to roam,
this land their native haunt and home;
and yet his mood with strange unease
is filled, and boding thoughts him seize.
‘What grievous terror, what dread guard
hath Morgoth set to wait, and barred
his doors against all entering feet?
Long ways we have come at last to meet
the very maw of death that opes
between us and our quest! Yet hopes
we never had. No turning back!’
Thus Beren speaks, as in his track
he halts and sees with werewolf eyes
afar the horror that there lies.
Then onward desperate he passed,
skirting the black pits yawning vast,
where King Fingolfin ruinous fell
alone before the gates of hell.
Before those gates along they stood,
while Carcharoth in doubtful mood
glowered upon them, and snarling spoke,
and echoes in the arches woke:
‘Hail, Draugluin, my kindred’s lord!
‘Tis very long since hitherward
thou camest. Yea, ‘tis passing strange
to see thee now: a grievous change
is on thee, lord, who once so dire,
so dauntless, and as fleet as fire,
ran over wild and waste, but now
with weariness must bend and bow!
‘Tis hard to find the struggling breath
when Huan’s teeth as sharp as death
have rent the throat? What fortune rare
brings thee back living here to fare –
if Draugluin thou art? Come near!
I would know more, and see thee clear.’
‘Who art thou, hungry upstart whelp,
to bar my ways whom thou shouldst help?
I fare with hasty tidings dour
to Morgoth from my lord, Gorthaur.
Aside, for I must in; or go
and swift my coming tell below!’
Then up he doorward slowly stood,
eyes shining grim with evil mood,
uneasy growling: ‘Draugluin,
if such thou be, now enter in!
But what is this that crawls beside,
slinking as if ‘twould neath thee hide?
Though wingéd creatures to and fro
unnumbered pass here, all I know.
I know not this. Stay, vampire, stay!
I like not thy kin nor thee. Come, say
what sneaking errand thee doth bring,
thou wingéd vermin, to the king!
Small matter, I doubt not, if thou stay
or enter, or if in my play
I crush thee like a fly on wall,
or bite thy wings and let thee crawl.’
Huge-stalking, noisome, close he came.
In Beren’s eyes there gleamed a flame;
the hair upon his neck uprose.
Nought may the fragrance fair enclose,
the odour or immortal flowers
in everlasting spring neath showers
that glitter silver in the grass
in Valinor. Where’er did pass
Tinúviel, such air there went.
From that foul devil-sharpened scent
its sudden sweetness no disguise
enchanted dark to cheat the eyes
could keep, if near those nostrils drew
snuffling in doubt. This Beren knew:
upon the brink of hell prepared
for battle and death. There threatening stared
those dreadful shapes, in hatred both,
false Draugluin and Carcharoth,
when, lo, a marvel to behold:

– Lay of Leithian, Canto XIII, lines 187-271

A translation of this excellent cinematic scene:

Carcharoth, the world’s biggest nastiest door guard, sees a shape in the distance that is making slow progress towards Angband. I love three things here: first the detailed description of what we the reader know is Beren walking to Angband, how he pauses when Carcharoth sees him but then continues forward. That  we learn such movement of scouts and errand runners of wolf and fell-bat are common around Angband and that Morgoth’s creatures have freedom of movement to run unhindered on the dust plains. But most of that the descriptions of Carcharoth’s thoughts, that we get a glimpse inside his head.

And then the scene will flip to show Beren’s thoughts as he approaches as a counterpoint to Cacharoth’s unease. His words here can be summed up succinctly as, “What new devilry is this? Oh well, nothing for it, not like I can quit now.” Beren has always been a mix of fatalism, bold courage, and extremely stubborn determination. (”Yet hopes we never had”- gut me now) And there’s something both telling and appropriate that he passes the giant pits where Fingolfin and Melkor dueled and Fingolfin died. Beren’s journey into Angband has been directly linked to Fingolfin’s epic but ultimately suicidal charge in the poem before this at the beginning of this canto, and the tension is whether this attempt to challenge the Great Enemy will succeed in harming Morgoth, and if yet again the heroes will fall.

Disguised Beren and Lúthien before a suspicious and uncertain Carcharoth, and I love the description that Carcharoth gives of his grand-sire, both of his prime and the battered old werewolf before him. “So dire, so dauntless, and as fleet as fire, ran over wild and waste” compared to the ‘bent’ and ‘bowed’ weariness is an evocative description for Draugluin yet also a fair description of the outlaw Beren had been fierce and uncontested as he harried Sauron’s troops in Dorthonion and how grave and worn his appearance and mind were when he stumbled into Doriath.

And the “Sass-Off” between Carcharoth and faux-Draugluin – “You look pretty good for having your throat torn out, Pops.”

So Beren responds as he had before to Sauron at Tol-in-Gaurhoth; he bluffs and turns the tables and snaps back at Carcharoth, “Who do you think you are, Junior? (”upstart whelp“ is a delicious insult, pity I haven’t opportunities to use it) I outrank you, now get out of my way or assist me like a good little boy.”

Like a classic cowed bully, Carcharoth tries to reestablish his power by shifting targets to the weaker option. He brags of his contempt for the vampire bat messengers and shifts his suspicions to the disguised Lúthien. Now aside from the description of the disguised Beren with flame-like eyes and bristling fur – which any dog owner would recognize – here comes something I think is absolutely hilarious.

It’s a common element to mythology and fairy tales that the pure and good maiden (or man), especially if connected to spring and restoration of life, radiate a sweet scent, part and parcel of the ‘flowers bloom where they walk and birds burst into song’. Lúthien has that. And in this story that very nature becomes the liability, that the one thing that spoils their plan to enter Angband unhindered, is Lúthien’s secondary princess ambiance.

So Beren knows that before Carcharoth discovers the deceit, he’s going to have to fight this unholy monster to the death. And he’s Beren, so the overwhelming odds aren’t going to stop him.

Luckily, as we pause on this cliff-hanger, Lúthien has Option B.

the Great Sass-Off, here Carcharoth is Garm and Cerberus instead of Fenrir, maybe still with Fenrir’s suspicions, Beren the Bold, Camlost is awesome what else is new, aha poor Tinúviel of the things you never thought would come around and bite you…,

(via squirrelwrangler)

The silences were sudden shivered
to silver fragments. Faint there quivered
a voice in song that walls of rock,
enchanted hill, and bar and lock,
and powers of darkness pierced with light.
He felt about him the soft night
of many stars, and in the air
were rustlings and a perfume rare.
The nightingales were in the trees,
slim fingers flute and viol seize
beneath the moon, and one more fair
than all there be or ever were
upon a lonely knoll of stone
in shimmering raiment danced alone.
Then in his dream it seemed he sang,
and loud and fierce his chanting rang,
old songs of battle in the North,
of breathless deeds, of marching forth
to dare uncounted odds and break
great powers, and towers and strong walls shake;
and over all the silver fire
that once Men named the Burning Briar,
the Seven Stars that Varda set
about the North, were burning yet,
a light in darkness, hope in woe,
the emblem vast of Morgoth’s foe.

‘Huan, Huan! I hear a song
far under welling, far but strong;
a song that Beren bore aloft.
I hear his voice, I have heard it oft
in dream and wandering.’ Whispering low
thus Lúthien spake. On the bridge of woe
in mantle wrapped at dead of night
she sat and sang, and to its height
and to its depth the Wizards’s Isle,
rock upon rock and pile on pile,
trembling echoed. The werewolves howled,
and Huan, hidden, lay and growled,
watchful, listening in the dark,
waiting for battle cruel and stark.

Lay of Leithian, Canto X, lines 89-128

This moment. All my emotions for this moment. Beren has become near comatose with despair:

There Beren lies. His grief no tear, /his despair no horror has, nor fear, /waiting for footsteps, a voice, for doom. /Silences, profounder than the tomb /of long-forgotten kings neath years /and sands uncounted laid on biers /and buried everlasting-deep, /slow and unbroken round him creep.

And then, and then he hears this faint song, this echo of the one good memory in years of horror and lonely resistance against the god of evil, the moment when he found solace and healing and love unlooked for, of Lúthien and the magical moment.

And what does he do but start singing again his defiance to evil and despair, armed with the faint whisper of his love and the memories of that spring in the woods of Doriath. He sings Edain war songs, the songs of himself and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather and uncle and cousins and kin. He sings of Varda and her stars and her power- for Morgoth fears them.

And then the reply- that Lúthien hears Beren’s song, the one she remembers from dreams, the one that brings to her all the memories of him. And it isn’t clear if she knows he can hear her, but she sings back. They are encouraging each other to courage and ugh OTP.

And also the growls and howls of the two mirrored sides- Huan and the werewolves, the anticipation and build-up to the clash between them.

(via squirrelwrangler)