Allow me first to apologize for any breach of etiquette or other impoliteness which he may have displayed in your court. Recall that the lives of Men are short, leaving them often without much time to learn the finer points of our traditions; recall also that this Man has been long away from any kingdom, having fought valiantly against our common Enemy. Beren’s heart is good, and his thoughts are all of kindness and compassion; if he has offended you in such a way, it was assuredly unintentional, and I am prepared to take full responsibility.

Second, may I ask: is it true that you have set him this terrible bride-price? I trust Beren’s word implicitly, but he was doubtless in great distress during his initial audience with you, and it is possible he may have misunderstood your meaning. If so, please write to me at once, and I will clear his mind of any doubt.

If he understood you aright, I beg you to reconsider. I know it must have been shocking for a mortal to appear in your court, and I can well understand your anger at what you must have seen as great impertinence. But I also know you to be lordly and wise, and if you are quick to anger you are also generous with forgiveness. Please, rescind this decree. Beren’s Oath to you hangs heavy about his shoulders. I would not have him go alone to terrible Thangorodrim. If your answer is no, then let it be no; do not give him false hope.

But finally, my family in blood and law both, I ask this of you: is there aught I can do to change your mind? Beren has neither father nor mother living, but he is my own heart’s-son, and I am willing to stand for him in whatever manner you may require. If it is craft-work that you desire, I will give as a bride-price near anything you ask - indeed, if you wish it, I will give the Nauglamír itself to you, passed on in joy and friendship as it was given to me. I know how dear Lúthien is to your heart, and that you would not make such a decision lightly.

Beren is mortal, and his passing will doubtless bring her great grief, and all his wisdom and the flame of his spirit cannot compare to your bright daughter’s. Yet he is kind and brave, gentle and good - and if Lúthien has given her heart to him in truth, then there is grief awaiting her no matter what path she takes. Please allow her this brief joy, which will yet be bright for all its shortness.

I hope you will forgive my forwardness in writing about a matter which must be tender still, and about a subject so very dear to you; but I hope you will receive this letter in the spirit of friendship and love in which it is intended.

With all goodwill,

Finrod, King of Nargothrond, of the House of Olu

Quellë 2, F.A. 465

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Sister -

This letter will be brief, for I have already slaved away half the night over a letter to our grandfather’s brother, and I have many meetings with counsellors ere I can rest. But my heart is heavy and I am full of foreboding; and even when you are not here I find it a comfort to unburden my mind to you on the page. Most excellent Galadriel!

Young Beren arrived to Nargothrond today - I recall telling you his name, when he was born, but do not know if you have met him. He is the son of Barahir (whose name you certainly recall!) and he is in great distress. It seems that he has fallen in love with Lúthien, and she with him, and Elwë has set a brideprice of a Silmaril. I have written to him, asking him to reconsider his words (which must have been rash - surely he was not serious!).

Ah, another pin has dropped from the clock, and I must away. Time is rushing through my hands. Artanis, there is a shadow on my heart. Celegorm and Curufin will be deeply angered when they hear the news, and already they have more influence among the court than I would like. I hate to think so ill of them (they have been staunch allies for so long - and Celebrimbor is of an age with Finduilas, and makes her smile!), but there is already so much fear in Nargothrond: the Necromancer sent it rushing ahead of him when Tol Sirion fell. I do not wish anyone to think that Doriath is our enemy. We are not beset! We have friends all around. I must keep reminding myself.

Please write soon. News from Doriath would be a comfort!

Ingoldo

Quellë 8, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lord of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond

Finrod:

You ask for what you do not - cannot - understand. My daughter is more dear to me than any necklace, no matter how fine; to offer gems or gold is a grave insult. Even a Silmaril could not outshine her presence.

I was entirely serious in my proclamation to Beren. If my daughter wishes to marry a mortal, he must be great among Men, mighty enough to face Morgoth in the manner of the Queen Melian. I will not allow my daughter to be without protection.

If Beren is not strong enough for this task, let him remain in Nargothrond, an it please you! There you may lavish upon him all the fine works of your hands, if you prefer to waste them on a mortal - but in truth even the thought of him dwelling in the caves of my gift disgusts me. He has cut my daughter to the heart, and she grieves for what she cannot - must not! - have.

Consider the matter closed, and do not test my patience so again. This is a time of deep trial for our family.

Sincerely,

Elu Thingol

Quellë 12, F.A. 467

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Dear Galadriel,

You will doubtless laugh when you read this, but I confess I found myself a little worried when I received a letter from Elwë and no accompanying missive from you. I know you are terribly busy with Melian and her attendants, and that you travel often - doubtless you have not even seen my letter, and are doing unspeakable things with Celeborn somewhere in the wilds of Doriath. (Do NOT tell me about them!)

Well, at least now I have a spare moment to myself, and can sit down to tell you all that has happened. My other letter was quite vague, I know (most unlike me, you will say, I am sure! Where is Ingoldo, who seldom uses one word when ten or twelve would do! There, I have teased myself for you, and now you need not do it), and I shall remedy this fault now.

I assume that you were not in the court of Doriath the day Beren came (I am sure I would have heard from you if you had been!), so I will set down the events as I understand them. Perhaps this will settle my whirling mind. I cannot truly take in what has happened.

Barahir is slain, and his wife Emeldir gone; but his son Beren survived, and after making quite a name for himself as the sole defender of Dorthonion, after a time he made his way to Doriath. He will not tell me how (and to be honest I fear to guess!), but there in the woods he met our cousin, and his heart flew forth to meet hers, and hers to his.

They were happy for awhile; then Thingol discovered them and grew quite angry. He demanded what I mentioned in the last letter (a Silmaril for a brideprice: just in case the missive has been lost!) and cast Beren out of Doriath. Beren, not knowing where else to turn, came to Nargothrond - and I am so glad he did, for my heart bleeds to see a son of the People of Bëor so deeply hurt. He has been alone for so long, he says, and wished for death ere Lúthien came. I wish

I am getting off the track. It gladdens my heart to see Beren unharmed - I cannot tell you how it gladdens me! - but his arrival has brought with it tumult - and I am already stretched in so many directions! Beren is quite determined to assault Thangorodrim - alone, if he must - and I convinced him to wait and allow me to treat with Elwë, but I awake every morning afraid that he has gone in the night. 

To tell the truth, if anyone could succeed, it will be Beren Barahir’s son. You have heard of his prowess against Morgoth; all have. And sometimes there is a look on his eyes - such a look! As if the hand of Vairë herself was on his shoulder, and the face of Námo turned away from him! There are fell deeds coming, and I can only hope they will be ours and not our Enemy’s.

But that is not the only trouble. Celegorm and Curufin have heard of Beren’s quest. I know not how, for I have spoken of it only with Beren himself, and that seldom - but nonetheless they know of it. Curufin claims that he was on his way to speak with me when he heard the Silmaril mentioned, and perforce must listen, and decided not to interrupt us. I do not wish to disbelieve him; but Sister, the air in Nargothrond has grown dark. (I wish you were here! You are so steadfast and so practical that the shadows in my mind flee before you. I do not know yet if this shadow is in my mind only.)

It has occurred to me - though reluctantly - that the Eldar who serve Curufin and Celegorm could overset Nargothrond quite easily. The greater part of our force is gone. We lost so many to the Sudden Flame I should not have sought our brothers so rashly, perhaps and more to Tol Sirion (now Tol-in-Gaurhoth! A terrible name!). Gladly I welcomed our cousins when they came with many in their vanguard; but they stand so often apart now, and more and more of my people come to me with complaints. The Fëanorian soldiers are rude, I am told; they often fail to show up for their assigned rotations; they mock us for taking shelter so far south (this last, I find a little ironic, at least). 

But each time, I tell them I will speak to the Fëanorian lords, and each time I do, and Celegorm sighs and shakes his head and Curufin looks angry and tells me he will do his best, and I cannot fault them for it. It is hard to lead, particularly in such times. The fates of Maglor and Caranthir are not yet known, and little Celebrimbor was badly injured in the flight from Himlad and has only just recovered. No wonder they are short-tempered. Perhaps I am too unkind. (Doubtless you would tell me I am too kind, and ought to have thrown them out to land where they may; but you did not see them when they arrived!)

And there, I have lost the thread again. But I am too tired to cross much out and start over, so you will simply have to read an overabundance of words (and there, you do not need to mock me, I have done it twice already for you! Truly it is like having you here). 

I was telling you that our cousins know of Beren’s quest. Curufin came to speak to me the other night. He was quite angry. He asked when I planned to tell him news that was of such import to his family; I replied that I was aware of how grievous the insult was, but that Thingol was greatly wroth, and that I am even now asking him to retract his words. Curufin merely snorted at that and walked away. (He has quite an inelegant snort for such a shapely nose, have you noticed? Of course you have.)

Well - that is all the news. Please write soon, and tell me all the news from Doriath! I hope you are well.

All my love,

Ingoldo

Quellë 12, F.A. 467

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to the Lord of Doriath

To Elu Thingol, Lord of Doriath:

Greetings! I hope you will forgive the shakiness of my hand; many matters have required my attention the past days. I hope you will also, as you have done many times before, forgive my presumption in writing back.

I wish to apologize for any insult taken when I offered a brideprice on Beren’s behalf. As you know, I love Lúthien well, and have known her for many years: please believe me when I say that her friendship and happiness is worth far more to me, as well, than any gem could ever be. I merely meant to advocate for a very dear friend.

Ever you have been lordly and gracious in your dealings with Men: with the people of Bëor, with the House of Hador, most of all to the Haladin. I ask you to be so once again. Please, if only for the sake of solidarity against our common Enemy, retract the demand you have made of Beren. Invoking a Silmaril will only enrage allies that we - that I - cannot afford to lose, whatever your opinion of them otherwise. 

I know that you want your daughter to be well-protected. Could Beren not come to dwell in Doriath? Or, if you wish it, both could come to dwell here in Nargothrond until Beren’s brief span of life is finished. They would dwell in peace and happiness, and I would protect your daughter with my life.

Yours ever in friendship,

Finrod, King of Nargothrond, of the House of Olu

Quellë 20, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lord of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond

Finrod:

My daughter weeps now in her great house in a tree, where her love for a mortal has forced her to reside. She seeks always to escape this safe haven and chase after your Beren. She seeks to follow him into the arms of Death!

I cannot allow it. I have loved my daughter for longer than you have been alive. You know Lúthien’s bright spirit; until now I had not doubted your love for your cousin! Now I wonder that your loyalty towards those who murdered your mother’s kin looms larger in your mind than thoughts of my only daughter.

I say this with no little regret: I will not open any further missives from you until the mortal who has so grieved my daughter is gone from the world. Letters to your sister, of course, will be delivered. I will not deprive you of your kin as you seek to deprive me of mine.

Sincerely,

Elu Thingol

Quellë 24, F.A. 465

A Letter from the King of Nargothrond to Galadriel, a Lady in Melian’s Court

Dear Galadriel,

I am afraid.

There, I have said it! And you may (I hope!) laugh at me later for it. Since I last wrote, Curufin no longer smiles at me at all, and Celegorm often brushes by me without a word. They can see the hand of the Weaver upon Beren, and in return I can see their Oath coiling about them. And my own Oath drives me, and not my word of honor only, but the love I bear for Beren, and all his forefathers! You know of whom I speak.

Artanis, little sister, I write this in haste, for I will soon go before my people and ask their aid in assaulting Angband itself. If I do not, Beren will go on his own; I could not keep from him Thingol’s refusal and since then he has been afire to be gone. If you were here perhaps I could find Despite the multitude of names I have been given, I find I have very little wisdom at need. I know it is unwise, and foolish, and that I am almost certainly leaving you, my dearest little sister (I can practically hear you telling me, “I am your only sister!” so let me assure you that you are dearest as well as only - and little) with another loss, and if you never forgive me it will be quite merited. But I cannot let him go alone. I cannot. Please understand

I did try (for I know you will ask). I tried to tell him that he should give her up, learn to live without her. But I saw in his eyes the same look I once saw in Aikanáro’s, of bright fervent hope, and I could not bear to see it turn to despair. Already we will lose Aikanáro to the Halls. Beren will not have even that peace in the end. 

Sister, you know already, I can see your mind churning. Yes, Curufin and Celegorm will not allow this to stand, they outnumber us by far, yes, I know, even if I keep my life I will lose my kingdom

No, I cannot pretend. You know what I saw, long ago, here in the place I love. I will not be returning. I hope it does not hurt too much

Galadriel - Artanis - Nerwen - little sister, I love you. Think not of me with bitterness.

I must go. I love you.

Ingoldo

Quellë 26, F.A. 465

A Letter from the Lady Galadriel of Doriath to the King of Nargothrond (unopened by him)

Ingoldo,

I am sorry I have not written in so long. Doubtless when I arrive home tomorrow there will be quite the stack of letters awaiting my attention! Celeborn and I have been traveling away from Menegroth, visiting the Hills of the Birds. We chanced upon a messenger just now and so I am seizing the chance to write a quick note to you, that you may not worry - for I am sure it will take me some time to respond to the many long missives you see fit to send to me in lieu of visiting.

I hope all is well in Nargothrond, and that our wretched cousins are not causing you any trouble, and that you have not worn out too many pens admonishing me to write back more quickly. This trip has been delightful in every respect (don’t make that face, brother) and has made me think perhaps we ought to chance a trip to your kingdom soon. The roads, I hear, are much better than they were now that things have settled a bit. And in truth I am restless, and I miss you.

There, now you cannot say I never show affection.

All my love,

Beren was more content that ever he would have thought it possible, though it happened that their nights were at times haunted by fell dreams, and the taste of fear and wolf musk and iron clung to his nose at times. He regretted little in setting aside all the works of the world for this high dwelling, his lady’s singing and laughter, his son’s mischievous troubles.

Dior was their greatest joy, the bright voice that woke them in the mornings, singing with the sparrows and wild doves and chattering with the trees. 

All trees; even the slow, solemn, venerable oaks and the fair beeches with their haughty ways. They were strange teachers, but generous; and long did Dior wander under their rustling leaves and their slow tutelage, hearing secrets few elves had heard, in voices none of the Edain ever would hear.

So too was he the friend of all beasts: and fearless, utterly fearless as one loved by the woods. The elk herds minded him and nudged him towards berry patches when he was hungry, and the nightingales sent out their call to bring him home for dinner.

And if he did not wish to stop his walking trips and games, he was not shy about running off, pretending he did not hear them. Truly he was Thingol’s heir, Lúthien’s own beloved child! - willful and cheerful and not very fond of being guided against his own will. 

All the same.

All the same, fear as a hard habit to shake.

“Has it not been too long? If he fell by the water he might catch a chill -”, and he would have smiled at himself, for his fretting, how much he sounded like his own father’s voice in the fading memories of his youth. But in truth Dior had fallen before, last fall, and grown ill for some weeks. 

It had been a hard, unhappy time, the sudden introduction of mortal affliction among the elves of the island - and Lúthien most of all had suffered, singing healing songs over Dior’s feverish brow, and grown near as weak as he, and proved slower to rise from that first, shocking bout of frailty than him. 

But rise she had, and become strong and light footed once more, if a little more attentive of her body’s potential for faltering. It was spring once more, a flowering end of spring turning into a mild summer, and in Tol Galan, sheltered from the Enemy’s foul smokes and plagues by the fierce waters of the river, the forest came alive once more. 

“I shall go fetch him, if he tarries overlong,” Lúthien said, not very concerned herself.

Her faith in the good will of the people of the island, and the island itself, was great and encompassing; but she was kind to Beren in all things, not least regarding his cautious fear. “But do not fret, dearest! It shall not be necessary. Already I hear him in the wind - listen! - singing your people’s marching tunes, and my people’s walking songs, all together with words of his own.” 

And so it was, of course.

Dior called out as he neared, and clambered up the tree, nimble and quick; and then he was there, not long after Lúthien made her way from among the leaves. Many blossoms nestled in his hair, calla lilies and wild, sweet honeysuckle; and his small arms around Beren’s neck were the dearest yoke. 

He pulled back, and showed his new wreath to be admired; and the pretty pebbles he had gathered, and the happy news he was eager to share.

“Mama, look! I found these flowers by the stream, but there were too many berries for me to carry. May we go, and take our food, and eat there?” 

His parents exchanged a speaking look, striving not to smile too readily. 

Beren made himself look pensive, more for the pleasure of Dior’s wide-eyed anticipation than anything else. “Should we, I wonder? The bread is cooling, you know! Yet we will have no peace, I am sure, if we do not let this little beast have his way.” 

Dior fled from his tickling fingers, and insisted that he was not a beast at all, though last week he had played at being a little stout so well Beren had to look under a dozen bushes to find him. 

He lifted his arms as high as they went, bumped on Beren’s elbow, and declared, “I am a tree! A river tree, Ada, can you not see? We must go to the river, or I shall be very sad, and lose all my leaves, and - and the birds will eat all the good berries, too!” 

Lúthien and Beren agreed that that would be very sad, and sent him off to add his pebbles to the rest of his collection, and wash, and make ready to go. 

“Another turn down these rope stairs! Stars give me strength, I thought to be done for the day,” Beren said wryly, groaning as his knees complained as he rose. It was spring, and soon summer; but winter, he thought, lingered long in his bones since his captivity, and did not like to be easily shaken loose with the thaw.