Dramatis Personae & Cast, in order of appearance
[this is how I'd cast them - you're free to supply your own actors, of course.]

    The Human Bard Gower (appearing courtesy of The Rose Playhouse)
        Derek Jacobi (appearing courtesy Henry V)

    Beren Barahirion, Human Warrior
        Christian Bale (appearing courtesy Treasure Island, Little Women)

    Nargothrond Border Patrol Captain
        Hugh Jackman (appearing courtesy Kate & Leopold)

    Steward of Finrod's Household
         Alan Rickman (appearing courtesy Sense and Sensibility)

    Curufin, Son of Feanor
        James Marsters in sly, caustic and vicious mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

    Celegorm, Son of Feanor
        James Marsters in suave, charming, and gentlemanly mode (courtesy Mutant Enemy)

    Huan of Valinor
        Special guest appearance as Himself

    Finduilas, Princess of Nargothrond, daughter of Orodreth
        Gelsey Kirkland (appearing courtesy the Baryshnikov Nutcracker telecast)

    Orodreth, Prince of Nargothrond
        Hugh Grant (appearing courtesy Sense and Sensibility)

    Finrod Felagund, King of Nargothrond
        Kenneth Branagh (appearing courtesy Henry V)

    Celebrimbor, Son of Curufin
        Alexis Denisof (appearing courtesy Mutant Enemy)

    Gwindor, a Lord of Nargothrond
        Ioan Gruffudd (appearing courtesy A&E's Horatio Hornblower series)

    Assorted Nargothronders of both Houses: Rangers, Citizens, and Knights

    (Caranthir, Son of Feanor, only appears in conversation; but you may imagine Douglas Fairbanks Jr., courtesy The Prisoner of Zenda, in that role.)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
SCENE I

Gower:
        From Doriath's enchanted gloom
        let now your unfetter'd fancy roam
        to where the silver waters merge
        of Sirion, and the marshy verge
        of Twilight, and beyond
        across the rugged rainswept hills
        to Narog, and to Nargothrond:
                Hither wary Beren draws,
        with blood-won token ever shown
        to the sight, as yet unseen,
        of those who guard, in green
        of forest from enemy -- alone
        he comes into their hands; yet finds
        a gentler grasp and more courteous minds
        than welcomed him in Thingol's halls. . .

    [Outside the Gates of Nargothrond. Enter Beren, escorted by the Rangers, but unbound.]

Captain:
        Forgive me, sir, but you must leave your weapons with us.
        It isn't permitted to go armed into the presence of the King.

Beren:
        Of course. Hold on a minute --
    [He hands over his bow, quiver, longsword, shortsword and dagger]

Captain: [relieved]
        Thank you for being so understanding about this. Now if you'll
        just come this way --

Beren:
        Not done yet.
    [taking assorted dirks from vambraces, leggings, belts and backpack.]

Captain: [staring at the mounting pile]
        Oh...Is there more?

Beren: [working poniards out of cloak hem and hand-guards]
        Yup.

Captain:
        Is -- is that everything?

Beren: [muffled, struggling out of his armor]
        No, there are still the backups, but you'll have to wait a bit.
    [takes another several pounds of metal from undertunic, sleeves, waistband]
        That should do it.

Captain:
        Your trustfulness -- astonishes one.

Beren: [shrugs]
        I'm here to ask for help. Weapons not going to be very useful for getting
        that, right? And I seriously doubt there are going to be any Orcs around
        here to worry about.

Captain: [affronted]
        Certainly not!

Beren:
        Exactly.  But I have to say I'm a bit surprised at your trust, myself.

Captain:
        ? . . . ?

Beren:
        Well, you don't know that I am who I say that I am. I could be a minion
        of Morgoth waving Barahir's ring about and claiming to be his heir.
        It -- is not -- an impossible scenario.

Captain:
        Ah. Well. I do suppose it's -- remotely possible, but --

    [He is saved from the increasing awkwardness by the entrance of the Steward.]

Steward:
        I'm sorry, but the King is still tied up in meetings and he left strict
        orders not to be disturbed.  If you wouldn't mind waiting until he's
        free, you can make yourself comfortable in the antechambers, and someone
        will fetch you when the council's over.

Beren: [overcome]
    [nods]

Steward:
        Is there a problem, milord?

Beren: [hoarsely]
        --No. Not a problem. I . . . I wasn't expecting such a civil reception.

Steward:
        We may be at war, but that is scarcely an excuse for neglecting basic
        courtesy.

Captain: [drily]
        --Especially when it's been going on for almost half-a-millenium now.
        It's not as if anything's changed lately.

Beren:
        Believe me, I'm not complaining, sirs.

Steward:
        Then, milord, if you'll be so good as to follow us?

    [aside, to the Captain of the Border Patrol]

        --Are you sure?

Captain: [shrugging]
        So he says.

Steward:
        But--

Captain:
        I know.  --I know.  But mortals don't come back, or so he says -- and
        he should know.
 
 
 

SCENE II

Gower:
        Now for the mean, whilst under distant shade
        sadly in duteous piety doth pine the maid
        Luthien, waiting for her love (or tidings of),
        the son of Barahir finds ease, and welcome,
        if not from all in Nargothrond, at least from some--

    [The Steward ushers Beren into the royal apartments.]

Steward:
        Please make yourself comfortable, milord. I only ask -- and please
        take no offenses, 'tis but for form's sake -- that you remain here
        and not wander before the King summons you.

Beren:
        Not at all. I don't imagine I'd want to trip your security system.

Steward:
        Precisely. What would you care for, while you wait? A change of garments?
        There's probably time for a hot bath, if you wish -- these councils often
        go far beyond what's planned.

Beren:
        Er, food, actually.

Steward: [blinks]
        Of course. What sort pleases you best? Manchets? Subtleties? Viands spiced
        and minced--

Beren:
        -- Hot is fine.

Steward:
        Just -- hot?

Beren:
        If it's not too much trouble.

Steward:
        No, I'm sure the chefs can manage -- hot.

    [The Steward leaves, shaking his head. Beren wanders about, looking at the artworks
    and Really Cool Stuff around the chamber, being careful not to touch anything.

    [Room Service enters with a steaming tray and lays out a complete place setting before
    leaving. Beren looks at the table, looks at the chairs, looks at the state of his clothes.
    Makes a cursory attempt to brush off the assorted rust, mud, blood, and grass stains,
    shrugs, and sets the tray down on the floor instead. Sits down cross-legged and starts
    uncovering dishes.]

    [Enter Curufin, alone, looking around for someone else.]

Curufin: [noticing Beren]
        --Well, well, well, what have we here? Something the dogs dragged in?
        Looks like a wolf's-head to me.

    [Celegorm enters]

Celegorm: [flinging himself down casually into a chair]
        I agree, brother. A thief at best, or possibly a revolutionary. Someone
        with little respect for law and order, I dare say.

Beren: [blandly polite]
        Yeah, that's what they say. Or so I'm told.

Curufin: [sinking gracefully into another chair]
        You're mortal, aren't you?

Beren:
        Mortal enough, to my enemies.

Curufin:
        I make the jokes around here. --Mortal.

Beren:
        Go right ahead.

    [He picks out part of the meal and starts eating. Curufin and Celegorm stare. Celegorm
    grins evilly and whistles. Sound of clicking on floor outside. Huan enters.]

Celegorm:
        You'd better run -- he hates wolves, and wolf's-heads, outlaw.

    [Beren does not move.  Huan approaches and snuffles him; Beren gives him some of
    the meat from his tray.]

Beren:
        -- Aren't you a good boy?  Want some more?

Huan:
    [wags tail]

Beren: [scratching Huan's ears]
        Dogs are great. Big dogs especially. --You don't really think I'd
        be in here without permission, do you? I'm waiting for your King.

Celegorm:
        Huan! Get over here.

    [Huan reluctantly leaves Beren and flops down next to Celegorm with a sigh]

        Not our King. Not all of us here owe allegiance to the children of Indis.
        What are you, an emissary from the Kingdom of Beggars? Our hosts had
        better look to the number of spoons they have left when he leaves.

Curufin:
        I've heard there are primitive tribes in some of these ancient forests.

Beren: [between mouthfuls]
        That one was pretty funny.  Not first-rate, but mildly amusing nonetheless.

    [the Sons of Feanor talk as though he has not spoken]

Celegorm:
        Yes, don't they rub mud in their hair?  And they're supposed to be short, too.

Curufin:
        But they paint their faces, and I don't see any paint on his face.  Of course,
        it's hard to tell with all that dirt...

Beren:
        You know, I heard Elves were supposed to be incredibly eloquent, and wise,
        and perceptive on top of that.

Celegorm:
        If you're not a barbarian, why are you sitting on the floor eating with
        your fingers instead of a knife?

Beren:
        Ah, because--

Curufin: [talking over him]
        This is called 'furniture'. That --

    [pointing]

        -- is a 'table'.  One sits at it to eat, not next it.  On these
        things called 'chairs'.  They're really quite the rage now in
        civilized society.

Beren:
        Chairs . . . You know, I think I remember those.  We used to have
        some when I was a kid.  --They burn really well when you can't go
        out to cut wood because there's a horde of Orcs in the way.

Curufin:
        Insolent mortal, do you have any idea whom you're addressing?

Beren:
        No, but I expect you're going to tell me.

Curufin:
        I am Curufin, formerly of Valinor, and this is my estimable brother, Celegorm.

Beren:
        --Oh.

    [aside]

        (Damn!)

Curufin: [smugly]
        Ah, you've heard of us, I see?

Beren:
        Everyone's heard of the Sons of Feanor.

Celegorm: [preening]
        Look at that -- we're renowned even among mortals, brother.

Curufin [suspicious]
        What exactly do you mean, everyone's heard of us?

Beren:
        Let's just leave it at renowned, okay?

    [aside]

        (-- and leave out the 'psychotic obsessed losers' part . . .)

    [He waves a small piece of meat sneakily behind his back.  Huan gets up
    and starts to come over to him.]

Celegorm: [sternly]
        Huan! Down!

Huan:
        [whines]

Celegorm:
        Whose dog are you, anyway?

Beren:
        I'm no man's dog -- or Dark Lord's.  --Sir.

Celegorm:
        I was not speaking to you.

Beren:
        Good.

Curufin:
        You've quite the opinion of yourself, haven't you?

Beren:
        I know my limitations.

    [The Sons of Feanor scowl, trying to work out if this is supposed
    to be an insult.  Beren tosses the meat to Huan, who catches it.]

Huan:
    [tail thumps]

Celegorm: [angrily]
        Stop feeding my dog!

Beren:
        Maybe you should take better care of him.
    [throws another piece to Huan]
        Then he wouldn't be so hungry.  --Would you, boy?

Huan:
    [loud tail thumps]

Curufin:
        So, I assume all this . . . artistic slovenliness. . . is just an affectation?

Beren: [swallowing]
        Come again?

Curufin:
        Well, you're turning up your nose at the finest venison there.  It isn't
        as if the hounds didn't already get their share at the kill.

Beren:
        I don't eat meat any more.

Celegorm: [flabbergasted]
        Why ever not?

Beren:
        I only hunt Orcs these days, and other things that fall into the general
        category of fell. And before you go there, no, I don't eat Orcs. Or wargs,
        or spiders.

Curufin:
        You didn't answer the question.

Beren:
        Orcs kill anything that moves -- and eat them, too, unless under strict orders
        to bring back prisoners alive.  For one, it's a way of maintaining a difference
        between myself and what I hunt, when -- as you've so kindly pointed out -- in
        terms of civilization I haven't much footing left. For another, I can't
        help but identify with anything hunted by Orcs. It seems wrong, somehow.
        Treacherous, even -- I couldn't begin to tell how often I've been warned of
        a patrol's approach by bird-cries or fleeing deer.

Curufin:
        So now you're equating us with Orcs, no less.

Beren:
        I never said that.

Curufin:
        But you implied it.  By implication, as it were. Implying that those of us who
        do hunt, and eat what we bring down, are no better than Orcs, and no different.

Beren: [slightly exasperated]
        No.  It's a personal choice.  I don't impose it on anyone else.  I don't expect
        anyone else to have my reasons for it.

Celegorm: [horrified]
        So what do you eat?  Berries and, er, roots?  You're not a farmer, are you?

Beren:
        Well, before things got too bad, people used to leave stuff out for me, not
        obviously, but the occasional 'forgotten' loaf or cloak or or boots or wheel
        of cheese or leftover . . . leftovers. Not much, but it helped make ends meet.

Curufin:
        I hate to destroy your idealistic illusions, but bread is made from eggs, you
        know.  And eggs are animals.  You do know that, don't you?

Beren:
        That depends on the bread. Seriously, though -- not all eggs hatch, even in
        the wild.  So far as the intent goes, I'm not trying to destroy a bird, just
        to sustain my own life, though I might end up doing so by accident.  A small
        difference, maybe, but a real one.  I think.

Celegorm:
        Well, going by that logic, it isn't just Orcs that eat whatever they can catch.
        Pretty much any animal will hunt and take prey, even beasts that are mostly
        herbivorous, like mice.  I don't see your objection, myself.

Beren:
        True.  But I'm not an animal, either.

    [Celegorm is fairly certain this is an insult directed at him, but is distracted
    from responding by Huan's willingly being lured away again.]

Celegorm:
        No!!! Bad dog!!! Down, Huan!!!

Curufin:
        I can't believe we're arguing moral philosophy with a mortal barbarian.

    [suddenly suspicious again]

        Orodreth? Is that you, playing some kind of bizarre joke?

    [He attempts to dispel illusion; since it is not an illusion, Beren's
    appearance does not change.]

Celegorm:
        You spoke in the past tense. What do you do for mealtimes now?

Beren: [becoming more enthusiastic as he goes on]
        Well, there's turnips, there's parsnips, there's feral edibles of all
        kinds around the old homesteads. A lot of the land used to be under
        cultivation.  Cattails, you can prepare them all kinds of ways if you
        know what you're about -- a lot of different kinds of edible marsh grasses,
        in fact.  Then there's pine-nuts in the forest in autumn, hazelnuts,
        -- berries, yes; wild-sunflower and thistles, the roots and heads can be
        steamed and they're really quite good; and there are always mushrooms. --If
        you know what you're about, again, and don't poison yourself. Even in winter
        you can find wood-ears and boil them --

Curufin: [fascinated in spite of himself]
        Wood-ears?

Beren:
        Those fungus that grow on trees and stick out like ears.

Curufin: [remembering to sneer]
        Impressive.  Quite a lot of work, for an abstract principle.

Beren:
        I don't say it's easy. But I figure if the Sindarin clans can do it,
        then I can manage it too.

Celegorm:
        Oh, so now you're putting yourself on the same level as the Kindred, are you?

Beren:
        You guys really do have issues, don't you?  What is your problem?  You look
        like you have it pretty good here: you're cousins of the King, right?  You
        don't have to worry about somebody deciding that that reward sounds a whole
        lot better than 'Thanks, gotta run, you didn't see me,' or finding your cave
        full of Orcs waiting to ambush you.  Back off -- it's not like I'm here to
        threaten you, after all.

Curufin: [suspiciously]
        What exactly are you here for?  And who are you anyway? You look sort of
        familiar, but I can't place you.

Beren:
        I really think that in prudence as well as courtesy the King should hear
        my business first. --Sir.

    [Before things can escalate, Finduilas enters with a parchment in hand.]

Finduilas:
        Oh, there you are!  Can I have your autograph, milord?

Beren:
        ? . . . ?

Curufin:
        --What are you about, cousin?

Finduilas:
        Isn't it wonderful?  This is the mortal who saved my uncle at the Dagor
        Bragollach!

Beren:
        No, er, that -- that wasn't me, that was my father.

Finduilas:
        Oh.  Oh.

    [frowns]

        Well, I'd still like your autograph. Can I see the famous ring?  Do you know,
        everyone's speculating on why you've come. We're all madly curious. You must
        tell us!  Oh, if you'd please sign it at the edge, then I can draw your
        picture in the rest. --Huan, go away, you'll smudge it!

    [Beren is overwhelmed; the Sons of Feanor exchange Significant Glances]

Curufin:
        Finduilas, darling, don't humiliate the poor fellow.

    [Finduilas gives him a confused look]

        You can't expect everyone to have had your advantages of upbringing.  I doubt
        very much he's even literate.

Finduilas:
        Oh, I'm -- I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to --

Beren: [gently]
        It's all right. I do know my tengwar. And I'll be happy to give you my name,
        though I'm not sure why you'd want it.

    [He takes the pen from her]

Finduilas: [very hesitant]
        Um, it -- it goes the other way round, milord.

Beren:
        On the other hand, it has been a long time.

    [He changes the pen over and spells out the runes of his name, very carefully.]

        There. Does that look right?

Finduilas:
        If your name is Beren, yes.

Beren: [grins]
        Whew.  Shouldn't have boasted before I did it, eh?

    [Finduilas dares to smile.  He doesn't sneer at her. She is encouraged.]

Finduilas:
        Is it true that you're here to organize a new Siege of Angband? They're
        saying you're the one that Morgoth was hunting all last year -- no, the
        year before -- and that he fears you more than anyone else in the world!

Beren:
        Well, I -- I wouldn't say that, necessarily --

    [An Elven-lord enters, to be enthusiastically greeted by Huan]

Gwindor:
        Down, boy! --Did you find him, Faelivrin?

Curufin: [grins]
        Faelivrin.

    [She blushes as she points out Beren.]

        That's so cute.

Finduilas:
        Oh, stop it.  --Gwin, can you believe it? You were right last winter, when
        you wouldn't believe the reports he'd been killed.

Gwindor: [stammering]
        My lord -- it's -- such an honor. I never -- the stories, the songs,
        the way you always managed to get out of every trap
 

Beren: [almost as much at a loss for words]
        You're both . . . very kind . . . I think -- I think you make too much --

Gwindor: [enthusiastic]
        -- What's it like, being a legend?

Beren:
        . . .

Gwindor:  [oblivious]
        A champion of the oppressed -- the Man most hated by the Dark Lord himself!

Beren:
        Mostly -- tiring.

Gwindor:
        I would love to be like you! To think of it -- wreaking vengeance on our Enemy,
        obeying no rules, beholden to none, fearing nothing, alone against impossible
        odds, hunted by implacable foes, with a price on your head worth a king's ransom--

Curufin:
        I said he was an outlaw --

Beren:
        -- Actually, I never saw myself as an outlaw. I kind of thought of it that I was
        the Law, in Dorthonion. They were transgressors. I punished them. They outnumbered
        me. That didn't make Morgoth rightful lord of Beleriand.

Gwindor:
        I really liked the way you would use an Orc-chief's own battle-axe to hew him
        and just leave it there. That was such an insult! -- did you mean it to symbolize
        that their evil deeds would turn against them and destroy them, just as their
        own weapons had?

Beren:
        Um, no -- that was because axes are really heavy and I didn't need one.
        The less extra weight to slow me down the better. I could always count on
        another axe with the next one.

Gwindor:
        Ah, practicality. So -- what was the most exciting part of your career?

Beren: [after a long pause for thought]
        The sky.

Gwindor:
        The sky--?

Beren:
        Yeah, when I was waiting in ambush most of the night, or stuck in a swamp
        waiting for night, the way the branches and reeds would frame the sky was
        . . . it's hard to explain, but . . . it would keep changing, and every change
        would be perfect, and so slow . . . and then all of the sudden a bird would
        fly across, or a shooting star would --

    [gestures vividly]

        and then it would be still again, calm like deep water, but still moving slowly
        all the time, the way a lake moves all the time in different ways under
        the surface.

    [long pause]

Gwindor: [not sure what to make of this at all]
        Oh.  That -- almost sounds Sindarin, really.

    [The Sons of Feanor exchange glances.]

Finduilas: [with a defiant look towards them]
        I think it sounds beautiful.

    [confidentially to Gwindor, emboldened]

        You know, darling, since he wasn't dead after everyone said he must be, then
        perhaps Gelmir's still alive, and if it's true that Lord Beren's going to
        help lead a strike force against Angband, maybe he could rescue him . . . ?

Gwindor: [controlled but clearly exasperated]
        Faelivrin -- you weren't there.  You don't understand. My brother could not
        possibly have survived. --I don't want to talk about it any more.

    [Finduilas looks hurt]

Beren: [serious]
        People do come back from the unlikeliest chances. But I did hear the Dagor
        Bragollach was like no other battle on earth.

Curufin: [wearily]
        Little cousin, reconcile yourself to facts, and do not attempt to raise your
        sweetheart's hopes with well-meant foolishness. He's bones and dust on the Thirsty
        Plain, and none of us will ever see him again this side of the Western Sea.

    [smooth shift to sympathy, at Gwindor's glare]

        --I do apologize, my lord.

Beren: [low voice]
        He's in good company. A lot of my family's out there, too.

    [Gwindor gives him a grateful look.]

Celegorm: [mock outrage]
        You do think well of yourself, don't you?

Beren:
        That wasn't what I -- Never mind.

Curufin:
        Besides, what if he did somehow survive? That would mean he was a slave in
        Angband, and would you really wish that on anyone you loved?  Even if he did
        somehow escape, he'd be no more than one of those brainwashed wretches that
        tried to assassinate your father and uncle in past days.  He wouldn't be allowed
        to enter the domain, let alone return to live here. --I'm dreadfully sorry,
        children, but it is the truth, and one must not live on delusions.

Finduilas:
        Oh, you're hateful!  I wish you'd never come here.

    [To Beren]

        --Not you.

[She storms out.]

Gwindor: [with a stiff and formal nod]

        My lords.

    [to Beren, with a deeper bow]
        My lord.

    [stalks out after Finduilas]

Celegorm: [leans back in his chair, grinning broadly]
        Young love . . . Sickenin', ain't it?

Beren:
        Oh -- I wouldn't say so.

    [Enter, almost immediately upon his words. the Steward, along with the Ranger captain,
    several more Border Guards, and a number of other warriors of Nargothrond.]

Steward:
        Sir, it will be just a few more moments. I do apologize, on behalf of King Finrod,
        as I'm sure he would himself, were he here.

Beren:
        That's -- that's fine. I thought for a moment you'd decided I was
        here on false pretenses and were coming to arrest me.

Steward:
        Oh no, I'm so sorry. It's only that everyone wanted to see you -- all the
        lot from the Plains, for old time's sake.

Beren:
        Oh.

    [rises and bows]

        Gentles, I -- I am honored . . .

Warrior:
        The honor is entirely ours.

Ranger:
        Your father used to talk about you.

Guard:
        It seems like we've known you forever.

Beren:
        I -- I wish I could offer you something, instead of coming as a beggar.
        But I can't even share refreshments, because I'm afraid what I didn't finish,
        Huan has.

    [Mysteriously on the other side of the room now, Huan grins and thumps his tail.]

Captain:
        Well, you two didn't finish the wine, did you? That's all the refreshment one
        needs!  Rinse out those bowls, men, we don't need cups.

    [aside, to the Steward, as the rest crowd around to shake Beren's hand]

        --Remember when all we had was our helmets?

Steward:
        I'd almost succeeded in forgetting that.  What it was like not to remember
        what sleeping in a bed was like, or what hot food tasted like, or -- holy
        stars -- hot water!

Captain:
        Oh come, you know those were the days!

Steward:
        Days of hell, you mean.

Captain:
        Perhaps so.  Perhaps so.  But brightest the stars on the darkest nights.
        --You'll surely drink a toast to the Edain?

Steward:
        Of course!

Celegorm: [annoyed]
        This party seems to be happening without us, brother.

Curufin: [quietly]
        Let the little people enjoy themselves.

    [Beren is beginning to hyperventilate, barely staying this side of fight-or-flight]

Captain: [noticing]
        Are you all right, milord?

Beren:
        Sorry.  I haven't been around this many people in weeks.  I haven't been
        around this many people who weren't trying to kill me in years.

Captain:
        Everyone!  Move back!  Give Lord Beren some breathing space!  More manners,
        less enthusiasm, and we'll all have a more enjoyable time.

Beren: [quietly]
        Thanks.

    [The King's entourage enters, bodyguards, petitioners, clerks, and Orodreth
    all trailing along behind Finrod.  Beren resolutely shoulders through the mob.]

Orodreth:
        Grinding Ice, but I thought that session would never end!  Why couldn't you
        just let it go till next season, Finrod?

Finrod: [weary frustration]
        --And then next season it will be the season after, and then the season
        after that. I've gone that route before.  I don't care what inspiration struck
        him, if he's going to drop everything and start working on plans for a giant
        orrery instead of the arbalest, then I first of all want to know about it and
        next I want to know who's lined up to replace him! Some things are more impor--

    [stops dead]

        Beor . . . ?

    [his voice trails off]

Beren: [holding out the ring]
       Sir.  Your Majesty.  My father once was of service to you, and -- this ring I have
       -- as proof -- though I know it isn't conclusive --

    [he falters under the King's stare and falls silent]

Finrod: [ignoring the ring altogether]

        You're Barahir's boy.

    [He grips Beren's shoulders.]

        -- You look just like him.  My home -- is yours.  What do you need?
 
 
 

SCENE III

Gower:
        To such a kingly welcome as, though well-deserved,
        lost Dorthonion's lord hath scarcely dared whereof to hope,
        Beren now is come, and here in royal rooms, and served
          by Finrod Felagund himself, he finds him rest, and dares to open
        (as only to one other e're before) the hard-defended chamber
        of his inmost thought.
                                Hearing his mind, the Lord of Caves
        wondering greatly, considers all his words, spoken and unspoken,
        deeming him here a sign of fortune, or doom, nor that he raves
        when of his mad and main-wrought quest he tells -- how broken
        never will his given vow and pledged love ere be, while Sun
        and Moon cross 'twixt heaven's stars and the Endless Sea.
 

    [Finrod's apartments. Beren, somewhat less disheveled, reclines before the
    fireplace watching the flames. Finrod is seated across from him on the floor.
    A carafe is between them; each holds a wineglass. As the camera moves it is
    revealed that Huan, asleep, is serving as backrest for Beren.]

Finrod:
        --More?

Beren:
        Sure.

    [Finrod pours. Beren holds up & admires before the light. When he speaks
    his words are slower than usual, but not slurred: exhaustion, not drink,
    has overtaken him.]

        Thanks. --This is amazing stuff. I'd expect I'd be unconscious by now . . .
        I can't remember when I last had wine; it's got to be six or seven years,
        I guess. It's the strangest thing: I can barely move, I couldn't fight now
        to -- hah -- save my life, and -- you know, it doesn't bother me at all.
        My mind is perfectly clear.  I think -- I think this must be what safety
        feels like.  If I ever knew it before, I must have forgotten a long time
        ago . . . Where was I?

Finrod:
        You were explaining why you remained behind when the last contingent
        of refugees departed.

Beren:
        Oh, right. --You sure this isn't boring you?

    [Finrod shakes his head]

        Okay. --So then Da says, to him, "What did I tell you?" and Old Man
        Galthrin says, "You said Orcs, me lord -- you said nothin' about any Trolls!"
        -- I guess it isn't that funny.  But it was at the point where there was
        practically nothing left for us to defend, and yet the less there was, the
        less we were willing to give it up.  The land itself . . . was getting
        strange . . . along the edges, and farms just . . . disappeared, from time
        to time.  Not burned, just gone, like old ruins.  But the survivors wouldn't
        give up, and we couldn't abandon them.  Finally -- and this had been going on
        for a long time, it didn't just come out of nowhere -- Ma said that Dorthonion
        was dying alive, that the only way to survive was to cut out what hadn't been
        too touched by blight and transplant it somewhere new. And Da said, "But the
        roots aren't dead yet, Em."  And she just looked at him, and -- I knew.

Finrod:
        Did you really think you could save anything by staying?

Beren:
        Da was no fool. He wished me to go with her because he thought I'd be safer
        that way, but he told me that she'd be safer if I was there to look after her.
        Ma wanted me to stay with him because she figured we'd both be safer looking
        after each other, and she didn't really think they were going to make it. We
        drew lots; I got Da's arrow.

Finrod:
        What did you want?

Beren:
        Dorthonion healed. -- Not one of the options, though.  That was, hm, two years
        after the Dagor Bragollach? Three? Dunno.

Finrod: [winces]
        I'm sorry.  Do you know if they made it through?

Beren: [shaking his head]
        I've heard rumors now and then. Nothing reliable.  I think  -- I think --
        I'm pretty sure she's dead, regardless.  I -- she only left because of the
        younger children.  Once she'd seen them safe in Brethil -- assuming there's
        anywhere safe in Middle-earth -- I think she would have come back. Or tried
        to.  That was the plan, though she didn't tell Da that.  Seven years, though
        . . . she was one hell of a fighter.  I don't think they took her alive.

Finrod:
        That sounds . . . plausible.  I heard much of Emeldir from your father during
        the War.  He used to say I'd be better served by her, because then I'd have
        wits too, as well as a wielded sword at my command.

Beren:
        That sounds like Da.

    [chuckles]

        --When we still had the fort, one of the things I hated worst--? Repacking
        the hedge.  Worse than mudding up the walls in winter. Doesn't matter how much
        you wrap your hands, you still end up looking like you lost a fight with a
        wildcat.  Couple times I tried to pull rank on some of the younger kids: hey,
        I'm the chief's nephew, you're just a couple of thanes, you go shove thorns into
        the barrier, I'll stand guard on the tower. Besides, I'm a better aim. --Actually
        got away with it. Twice, I think.

Finrod:
        Did they report you to her?

Beren:
        No -- she found them at it and pried the truth out of them. Then she called me out.

Finrod:
        Called you -- out?  As in a duel?

Beren: [nods]
        She said if I was remanding her directives and changing the order of battle, then
        that obviously meant I thought I ought to be in charge of the fort.  And in that
        case she was going to answer the challenge, because she had accepted the charge
        from the Lords of Dorthonion and she wasn't yielding it to Man nor Orc.

Finrod:
        What did you say?

Beren:
        After "Ma, wait--" and various assorted exclamations of pain?  Let's see --
        "I'm sorry, Hathaldir; I'm sorry, Dagnir; everyone, I'm sorry for failing to
        give you the respect owed by your ruling House." Then I was allowed to stitch
        myself up. I thought she broke my collar-bone, but I could use my arm after
        a week, so it wasn't that bad.

Finrod:
        Weren't you -- angry, with her?

Beren:
        Oh, yeah. I was furious. After I stopped shaking I went down to yell at her --

Finrod: [incredulous]
        --After you'd just just lost a sword-fight with her?

Beren:
        Why do you think that's funny? Something else would have come up and we wouldn't
        have gotten it out of the way.  And there she was, doing my work, with her hands
        all torn up from the hawthorn branches. So I just started helping her as best
        I could. And after a bit I asked her why she didn't just make me do it, instead
        of busting my shoulder in front of everybody. And she said, "You can't make
        people do anything, kid. The best you can do is show them how to want it."
        So then I said, "But when you tell people what to do, they do it." And she says,
        "That's because they want to." And I said something stupid, and she came right
        back with, "Well, if they want to not have their heads broken more than they
        want not to do their jobs, then they're still wanting it, right?"

    [sighs]

        So then I asked why she didn't make someone else want to do this for her, and
        she just gives me this Look.  And then she said, "You never, ever, ask someone to
        do what you're not willing to accept yourself."  And I was too dumb to stop, and
        I said, "But aren't you too important to do this?" And she points over at the
        gatepost next to us, and she says, "Your grandfather pulled that lodgepole out of
        the forest when the last one was hit by lightning, because it was tall, but not too
        broad, straight, sound but not too heavy, and of a bore with the last one.  That's
        what it is to be chosen leader. Occasional lightning and all. Or Orcs, as the case
        may be."

    [Huan stirs and whines sleepily, setting his head down with a grumble]

        And then about a fortnight after my Da comes home, and my uncle's not with him.

Finrod:
        Did you ever think of going after her?

Beren:
        I didn't know where to start.  And there were still people who wouldn't -- or
        couldn't, by then -- leave.  I thought -- I thought she'd try to find her way
        back, I left runes and checked all our haunts on my rounds, but . . .

Finrod:
        Why did you leave?

Beren:
        It wasn't a conscious decision at that point.  I hadn't slept in days, they were
        everywhere beating the woods for me, all my permanent camps were staked out, the
        only thing I could do was keep moving . . . why do the deer move when there's
        famine and the hounds are after them? Aside from natural disinclination -- which
        some people would disallow as a valid motive -- I suppose -- in so far as I was
        capable of any kind of rational judgment -- that I realized that being run to
        earth, cut down and butchered by Orcs wasn't going to serve anyone's purpose but
        Morgoth's.  I think -- I don't think I was completely sane. Not as men mean it.
        There was a clarity to it, but not meaning.  I was, the world was, they were.
        I was where they were not.  -- Far past the point where any sense of duty or hope
        remains.

Finrod: [very softly]
        That point you reach when you're so tired that you just want to lie down and stop--
        but the body drags on like a hound on a leash until flesh fails and falls, and then
        the spirit burns to madness until somehow one cannot bear its pangs and staggers
        on again.

Beren: [suddenly alert]
        You . . . do understand . . . ?

Finrod:
        We have no songs that celebrate it. We endured. That's all. You must have heard --
        the legends. The Grinding Ice, the Crossing -- words, for something beyond words.

Beren:
        'Beyond words' . . . where there are no words for it, there is only -- itself.

Finrod: [lost]
        Think of the worst night of the harshest winter you've ever known: to me that would,
        I judge, be as a brisk morning for you. The Sun is always present, even when we
        cannot see her, and the world is always warmed. But in the Night Without Stars we
        had nothing -- only endless, crushing, devouring cold, until all that is left is
        loathing for one's self, for very life itself . . . when the only light is that of
        other souls . . .

    [Silently Beren props himself forward and fills the King's glass once more.
    Finrod drinks it off in one go.]

Finrod:
        I'm sorry. This is gloomy hospitality.

Beren:
        More wine?

Finrod:
        Please.

    [Beren refills both glasses and slides back against Huan.]

    [More brightly:]

        Is it true that the price on your head was equal to that that's been set
        for my cousin Fingon?

    [Beren shrugs]

Beren:
        That's what they said. Since nobody ever collected on it, it's hard to say
        if that was just talk, or if they would have actually paid out.

Finrod:
        That's rather a signal honor, to be counted the equal of a Noldorin King.

Beren: [manic grin]
        I should have thought of that in Doriath.  That might have impressed
        His Nibs a bit more than -- 'Um, hey, my relatives were heroes.'

Finrod: [troubled]
        He wants you dead, you realize that.

Beren:
        Oh yeah. -- He said as much. In some detail, too.

    [shakes head]

        Not that I really blame him -- I mean, look at it from their point of view:
        the King's daughter of Doriath shows up one fine evening with this inarticulate
        loser in ripped camouflage and says, "Guess what! I've found my soulmate, Dad!"
        I knew it was a bad idea. And then I tried talking and I should have just
        kept my mouth shut. It was pretty funny, actually, at least if you weren't us.

Finrod:
        You're too harsh on yourself.

Beren:
        Oh, you weren't there. It was bad. -- It was worse, actually.

Finrod:
        But surely your lineage, your legend, your House's service with my own, all
        would count for something, even with Elu. I've been a friend of his for
        ages -- he's paranoid, but with perfectly good reasons, and he's not blind.

Beren: [shakes head]
        Like I said, it was doomed from the beginning.  And really, his reaction was
        entirely justified, and more than he knew.  Yeah, lords of Dorthonion and
        all -- but that was a long time ago.  I'm not the same person I was.
    [points]
        See that arch up there? I could get up there, and no one would be able
        to see me until it was too late, because I could cover the doorway without
        offering a target. And if I could, someone else could do it. Even though
        I know I'm safe here, I'm aware of that. Not like I could do anything about
        it just now, but I can't help noticing. But it isn't just that. I couldn't
        talk for months, even after I got to Doriath. I was not . . . entirely sane.
        I -- don't think she told them that.  In fact I'm sure of that.  So, hoo boy,
        it could have been worse. --Cheerful thought, huh?

Finrod: [seriously]
        You'll have to reconcile with him after this is all over, you know.  You can't
        take Luthien back to Dorthonion, and even if you both come here to live, it
        isn't as though you can legitimately cut off all contact with her family, even
        if Luthien's angry enough to do so.  And then there are political connections,
        too. I have to think of them, Beren.

Beren: [deadpan]
        Well, you've already convinced me of the need to apologize and be nice to
        your two noble kinsman, so we can enlist them into going along with the program
        until we get to Thingol's with the jewel, and since the other half of that plan
        hinges on you talking him into being gracious enough to then make a gift of it,
        thereby keeping the Sons of Feanor happy, and not homicidal, (and incidentally
        at the same time delivering the most staggering insult possible to them which
        we won't tell them about, and making up for a couple few centuries of general
        oneryness and rude behavior to Thingol on their part) -- yeah, sure. I can
        probably manage not to mortally offend Tinuviel's father next time. So long
        as you do the talking, I'll do the keeping-quiet.

Finrod: [more serious and admonishing]
        And you will do this, will you not? All of it?

Beren: [still deadpan]
        You don't think I'd be crazy enough to jeopardize my whole life because the
        Sons of Feanor are a pair of arrogant bastards who for some unknown reason took
        an instant disliking to me?

    [pause]

Finrod: [awkwardly]
        I have -- hm -- noticed a certain -- er, how can I put this tactfully? --
        intransigence in your people, over the years.

Beren: [grins]
        --Stubborn as rocks, that's us. Goes with the territory, I guess.

Finrod: [fascinated]
        Really? Do you think that's it? Something to do with geography?

Beren: [confused]
        I don't -- I don't know. Maybe. I was just using a figure of speech.

Finrod: [musing]
        -- Haleth was like that.  Wonderful child, but one had to be careful not
        to agree with her too closely, or she'd take it all wrong.

Beren:
        I'm not that bad. I don't think. --Hey! You knew Haleth? As in the Haleth?
        Lady Haleth of Brethil?

Finrod:
        Yes, she was having a run-in with Elwe, as it happens.  Or Elu, as he
        calls himself now.  Life's funny like that.

Beren:
        It makes a little more sense if he's like the rest of the crew, but I never
        understood why she wouldn't take up Lord Caranthir's offer of shelter.

Finrod: [drily]
        Obviously you've never met Caranthir.

Beren:
        ? . . . ?

Finrod:
        --Let me put it this way: I don't cross him. --Ever.  No, that wasn't the incident
        I was referring to. Why? Because Haleth was an intelligent and perceptive young
        woman and was not fooled by Caranthir's charming ways and words.  Ever wonder why
        they showed up a week late, after the lord of the land was killed, and the heir,
        when they were practically in his backyard?  Caranthir knew them for efficient
        fighters, and wanted them grateful, and leaderless.  And he has not, so far as I
        can tell, the slightest compunction about using mortal Men as a screen for his more
        -- valued, shall we say -- troops. --I don't know that for a fact, of course.
        That's just my reading of the events.  And the way he spits when he hears her name.
        No, I was referring to the -- tenor, of her exchanges with Elu over that unused
        property of his.  It was a rather, er, heated crossfire to be caught in.  A little
        tact might have made a great difference.

Beren: [recognizing the hint]
        There was  . . . not really . . . it was too late for tact by then.  --Doomed
        from the beginning, I'm afraid.  Everything I said made it worse.

Finrod:
        Well.
    [sighs]
        I can probably patch things up.  It still might even be wiser for us to go back and
        talk to Elu and to Melian -- you did say she was more favorably disposed towards
        your suit? -- and try to put this nonsense out of the way.

Beren:
        Tinuviel said that.  I -- couldn't tell. Maybe. She didn't look like she wanted
        me eviscerated, but I wouldn't say she looked happy. But it doesn't matter.
        I can't go back without it.  I'm sorry.  I can't.

Finrod:
        I'll not press you again on that, then.
    [blandly]
        Are you sure you're not related to the Haladin?

Beren: [grins wryly]
        Not as far as I know. --I still can't believe you knew her. Wow. She lived
        almost as long ago as Beor. That's --

Finrod: [worried look]
        Beren -- I knew Beor.

    [pause]

Beren:
        I know. --I know.

Finrod:
        But do you understand, Beren?  Luthien, whom you charmingly persist in calling, not
        inappropriately, Tinuviel, but which I cannot imagine endeared you further to Elu,
        had already seen Ages before your ancestor was ever born. You think me ancient
        beyond belief -- yet she is even older, though you see no difference in our years.
        Can you begin to comprehend how strange it is to us, to think of one of us finding her
        match in a mortal Man, whose entire life is over and forgotten even, in the passing of
        one of our measures of time?

    [Beren looks at him in distress; Huan grumbles softly in his sleep.]

        Even though, since our Return, time has fled faster even for us, the urgencies
        of war making us care for the coming of winter and the haste of summer, for messages
        and meetings and councils marked by the passing of days, and hours even, and not
        weeks -- still it is not for us as it is for you, and cannot ever be so. How can
        you begin to measure the compass of her thought, who saw the first Sunrise of the
        world, when you have not lived a single twelve-twelvemonths' span?

    [Finrod's expression is sympathetic but urgent, attempting to convey his fears.
     Beren turns away abruptly and stares fiercely into the flames.]

Beren: [low but clear]
        I heard a story . . . long ago, when I was a boy, but it was there everyday
        somehow, always behind the surface . . . about one who came out of darkness,
        to where we lay dull and almost speechless, and gave us words, and thoughts,
        and the knowledge of ourselves, and song.

    [Finrod bows his head and is silent.]

        --So Tinuviel came to me, when I was lost and alone and almost without name, and
        I can no more hold nor measure her than I could measure the stars of the Burning
        Brier, or take the Sickle in my hand, but without her I am blind and deaf and
        dumb, and I could no more live without her light than theirs!

    [stops himself]

        Forgive me -- I spoke without thinking. Again.

Finrod: [very quietly]
        Forgive -- that you have learned so well? --No, Beren, I will not question you
        in this again, nor insult you, nor her through you. I thought I had seen all things,
        known all that mortal or Elven mind might do, and here is a new song that I've
        never heard before -- but that does not make it an ill one. More wine? Or shall
        I take your glass?

Beren:
        Thanks.

    [frowning]

        It seems strange -- wrong, somehow. You shouldn't be waiting on me.
        --Sir. Sire. I'm sorry. I do know the right way to behave.

Finrod:
        --Please. I should hope that if I am a good enough host to put you
        at your ease, that I would not then be offended by your informality!
        And this is hardly burdensome service, my friend.

Beren: [with a wry smile]
        -- Friend.

Finrod:
        --If I may presume so much.

Beren: [softly]
        I'd hoped to meet with courtesy. No more than that. With duty, and
        civility at best -- at least a formal welcome, the bare necessities,
        a guide along the beginning of my road. I dared presume no more --
        I'm not my father, nor my uncle, I've done nothing for you or yours.
        I never thought -- to find -- a home.

Finrod:
        Nothing? Beren, you, alone, have done more in your short lifetime than
        many Elves have accomplished in a hundred years. Your efforts against
        Morgoth, tying up so many of his forces, for so long, spreading such
        fear among them and setting such example for the enslaved and oppressed
        -- not for your people alone, though you might not have realized that fact,
        but for every creature friendly to the Light!

    [Beren cannot quite believe this is not mockery. Finrod's expression
     convinces him otherwise.]

Beren:
        I should give you back your ring, Sire.

Finrod:
        Keep it for your children. The debt I owe your family is beyond measure.

Beren: [raises eyebrows]
        -- Optimist.

Finrod: [earnestly]
        With you here to inspire, to lend your ability and legend to the cause,
        what will we not be able to achieve? We are stultifying here, Barahirion,
        to a degree you might not believe, seeing our rigorous defenses -- but
        that's all we've done since the last engagement ended. Small battles,
        little skirmishes, no one dares to do more. Not us, not Morgoth. But
        little by little, he accomplishes by sheer inertia, and we are defeated
        without a blow, because others fall to him.

    [becoming more agitated]

        Oh, we plan -- we prepare -- but what have we actually done? I can't
        even get a weapons development program to fulfillment, not even after Dagor
        Bragollach -- you'd think that people would see the need, see that he surely
        won't be resting on the successes of his biomechanoids and chemical weapons.
        I shudder to think of what he must be coming up with while we waffle over
        the symbolism and cosmology of warhead shapes, and squander the resources
        set aside on designing the world's largest planetarium!

Beren:
        Er . . .

Finrod: [in full rant]
        Oh, I know all the arguments -- that a perfect design, in perfection
        of harmony with the heavens, cannot but ensure victory; that the disregard
        of celestial balances is what doomed us before, that tiny inefficiencies
        in the cosmic pattern create massive chaos down the line. Grinding Ice!
        do I ever know them. And know a smokescreen when I see one, too. We lost
        too many, last time. It isn't the people who were there who cannot bear
        to think of renewing the attack: it's the ones left behind. We survivors
        would go back in an instant, and not stand around waiting for him to come
        out, if we had the means.
    [He grips Beren's shoulder]
        We will be rekindled with your presence, and renew the battle, and my
        people will see what they have been blind to all these years in ease and
        hiding, and together we will accomplish such deeds for the Light as Arda
        will never forget.  --But that's for later: you're exhausted. We'll speak
        more when you've rested. --Good night, Huan. Rest well, my friend.

Beren: [thumping Huan's neck]
        Won't Celegorm be upset if he discovers his dog is here?

Finrod:
        Undoubtedly, if he notices. Huan roams most of the time as he pleases.
        He's older than I am, and quite capable of deciding what he should do
        without my say-so.

Beren:
        But he still belongs to Celegorm . . . ?

Finrod:
        So Celegorm thinks.  Huan's his own dog, so far as I can tell, and does
        pretty much as he thinks best. -- In that he is not unlike a certain Man
        named Balan I once knew, and his descendants. Remind me to tell you about
        the time your many-times-great-grandfather forcibly convinced me that
        accelerated healing is not always an adequate substitute for cautery and stitches.

Beren:
        What happened?

Finrod: [raising an eyebrow]
        A skirmish, an Orc-scimitar, a long journey still to take, and no time
        for foolishness like rest or medical attention.  I was not entirely sane
        at the time, either.  Are you sure you'll be comfortable? Just on the tile
        like that?

Beren:
        Oh, yeah. --It's flat. And dry. --And there's no down to fall, either.
        So long as Huan doesn't stand up, I'm good -- and probably even then.
        I don't know about not having my weapons to hand, though.

Finrod:
        Would you be more comfortable with your gear? I can send for it --

Beren: [shrugs]
        I don't want to make trouble.

Finrod: [mildly]
        I am in charge here: it won't be a difficulty.  --It would be a strange
        thing indeed if I could not trust the son of Barahir of the house of Beor
        in my presence armed, or on my doorstep!  I'll fetch your weapons for you.

Beren:
        No, please -- it's not worth the trouble.  I'll be fine.
    [smiles]
        That'd make your two noble kinsmen shake their heads, I bet. I can just imagine
        what they'd say.

Finrod:
        That I give such trust to mortal men, or to your preference for sleeping under arms?

Beren:
        Both. Either.

Finrod:
        They've forgotten what it was to live in the field -- not that they ever truly
        did without the comforts of home when they could, you'll hear some -- interesting
        -- stories if you listen closely around here -- but they're also annoyed that
        you don't seem to be sufficiently impressed by the Eldar.

Beren:
        I --
    [bites his lip in frustration]
        Sir, I'm sorry, I mean no insult to Nargothrond, or to your folk.
        It -- it's beyond words here, for one. For another -- I've grown up all my
        life hearing of the greatness of Felagund's court, and now I'm here, and I'm
        amazed.  And for last -- I've hiked here from Doriath. I'm starved as much
        for shelter and kindness as a stray hound for his meat. More than that --
        way beyond my ability to take in right now.

Finrod:
        Do you think I don't know all that?  Don't let it trouble you.  I at least remember
        what it is to sleep in a swamp, in one's armor, grateful for a few inches of water
        to hide in under a burning sky, and kind hands holding one out of it as one's
        wounds are bandaged. Nargothrond is not insulted by your presence, Beor.

Beren: [with a worried look]
        I'm -- I'm not . . .

Finrod:
        I know you are yourself alone, (however confused you might have left some today.)
        I meant it in the general, not the specific sense.

Beren:
        But -- I've given you you no vow of fealty, sire.

Finrod:
         Ah, the word is still confused in the translation. Funny how such things persist.

Beren:
        I'm afraid I don't understand . . . ?

Finrod:
        You translate it "vassal", and I am not entirely sure how mortals understand
        the word. As we use it, it is more, and less, and other, than a contract of law,
        or a bargain of power. It means . . . "one in whom one has complete reliance,"
        -- one who can be entrusted with a great work and more, needing no supervision.
        The words are but recognition of what is. Vows will not hold one to duty in the
        end.  And it means, as well, the other half: that the trust is mutual, that the
        duty is given but for duty, and that faith will be kept in turn.

    [he looks away, then meets Beren's eyes]

        Ultimately -- it means, when all else fails, that one may send a vassal to his
        death, but never without good reason. Never from pride, or willful ignorance, or
        carelessness. Never a duty given without regard for the servant's honor. -- Lest
        in turn the liege turn traitor, and the bond be broken.  But you know this already,
        son of Barahir and Emeldir, brother's son of Bregolas, lord of Dorthonion,
        -- whether you name it or not.

    [long pause]

Beren:
        I hope I will earn this trust, then.

Finrod:
        You will never fail me, my friend.

Beren:
        Is that your -- your Foresight, sir?

Finrod:
        No. That's merely judgment.  Now take your rest: I must excuse myself for
        preparation of our plans -- which means, unfortunately, as many meetings
        as it does maps!
 
 

SCENE IV
Gower:
        In hope most high of endlessly-awaited strife,
        long mused, longtime abetted, longer dreamed of yet,
        King Felagund renews his ancient works, recalls to life
        long-stilled ambitions, to o'erthrow and set
        in one fell stroke great Morgoth's pivot-hold,
        back from its strangling press in sortie bold.
        Like a master-painter he works over his design,
        now adding here a stroke, now there a line,
        now at a sudden inspiration swift-casting off
        and in one grand wide-sweeping unguessed move,
        turns inside out or back to front what was,
        building in space, in time, in Fate unshaped, to cause
        the End long-purposed far beyond the Seas.

        Meanwhile Beren the traveller, rested of travails,
        finding himself a stranger in uncharted realm, though fair,
        essays his own adventures, where for guide hath only tales;
        (but never was there journey yet he feared to dare,
        in the Dark Wood, nor yet the Mountains of Despair.)
 

    [A solar (or what would be a solar were it not underground)-- that is to say,
     a large, pleasant, brightly lit dining chamber/living room/meeting space off
     the main assembly hall, where some are taking breakfast, some playing quiet music
     some chatting; but there is a nervous undercurrent that manifests in cheerfulness.]

    [Finrod's Steward enters. Beren, accompanying him, halts before continuing and
     checks 'both ways' to be sure that all avenues of ambush are clear, then steps
     quickly through. This gets some Looks. He is washed and dressed in clothes clearly
     not his own, both for quality and fit, and appears less barbaric, though the results
     of getting pine pitch in one's hair are not disguisable. More at odds with the
     tailoring is the fact that he has limited his accouterments to some dozen sidearms,
     belted openly over his garments. The overall effect is rather unique.]

Steward:
        I'm so sorry we could not fit you better -- anything short enough
        was too narrow across the shoulders, and the alterations were rather hasty.

Beren:
        Please -- you don't need to keep apologizing, sir.

Steward:
        You gave us quite a turn, not being there.

Beren:
        Sorry. I woke up and found I couldn't sleep where I was any more.

Steward:
        On the floor?

Beren:
        Under a roof. The arch was more -- familiar.

Steward:
        Ah. I -- see.

Beren: [smiling]
        You don't. --From above, it's like a tree. The ceiling is too high for a house,
        but too low for the sky. My caves were never chosen for their spaciousness.

Steward:
        --Indeed.
    [moving on]
        There is a variety of foodstuffs available which will satisfy your dietary
        requirements, but I fear they are not labeled nor in any way distinguished
        in their arrangement at the buffet --

Beren:
        Again, I'd rather you didn't worry so much about my needs. I certainly don't.

Steward:
        Are you sure? I can ask the chefs to make up a list --

Beren: [innocently]
        Or -- I could come forage around in the kitchens, if that would be easier.

Steward:
        Stars, no!
    [drily]
        You're remarkably cheerful, milord.

Beren: [smiling broadly]
        Well, I've been awake for one-twelfth of the day already, and nobody's tried
        to kill me yet.

Steward:
        That is, I concur, an excellent reason to be pleased with life.

    [He shows the way to the 'groaning board' which holds is an array of foodstuffs
    so varied and plentiful that Beren cannot even be surprised at it, any more than
    one is surprised at the number of colored leaves in autumn.  He fills a golden
    plate with fruit and pastries and cheeses -- and also fills his sleeves and sash
    with several kinds of flatbreads. The Steward is too polite to say anything, but he
    does notice.]

Steward: [shaking his head]
        It seems that we have run out of glasses already -- I will have to speak to
        the staff.  I'll fetch yours: what would you prefer, Lord Beren? We have
        spring water, well water, rainwater of different hours' vintage; there is
        also juice, in the modern fashion, both corrantine and grape, and this
        harvest's damson, which I personally recommend. There, is as well, watered wine,
        in any combination of wines or waters, in the old Valinorean mode, if you'd
        rather the traditional instead.

Beren:
        Whatever you have is fine.

Steward:
        All together--?

Beren:
        No -- I meant -- whatever was most convenient.  You decide.

Steward
        You really don't care at all, milord?

Beren: [encouraging]
        That's right.

Steward:
        I do understand, young sir -- but I wish that I did not. May it please you,
        choose whichever seat you would: we do not stand on ceremony in the Hall of
        Hours, and everyone is free to take what place the soul desires. I'll return
        with your beverage shortly.  I trust I may presume upon your forbearance
        to delay long enough to chastise the kitcheners for their duties' neglect.

Beren: [graciously]
        You may.

    [The Steward bows and leaves him with a somewhat ironic-rueful expression.
    Beren tries to sit at the table, but cannot get comfortable in the chair: after
    several attempts to reposition it to where he is able to relax, he shakes his head.
    Laughing at himself, he picks up his plate, circling the room until he finds a
    convenient alcove and perches there.  He does not seem to be aware of the stares
    which follow him.]

    [Someone has forgotten a goblet on the ledge, which is made of crystal and
    has for decoration a fully-sculpted version of the emblem on his ring, the two
    gold serpents winding up the stem and the gold wreath encircling the lip of
    the glass, but all the texture is completely covered in the clear shell blown
    around the ornamentation. Beren picks it up and examines it, astonished by the
    fineness of detail and its fragility. The Captain approaches and leans over
    with a most conspiratorial manner.]

Captain: [manic whisper]
        --It's called 'glass'. One drinks from it. We make it out of sand.

    [Beren gives him an alarmed look; he maintains the earnest expression for a long
    moment, then dissolves into snickers, cuffing Beren on the arm.]

        Did he really say that? About furniture?

    [Beren nods, the laughter becoming contagious]

        They've been going around repeating it as though they think it makes them
        sound clever. --What a pair of gits!

Beren: [looks around, then whispers confidentially:]
        Don't tell anyone, but I've forgotten how to use the stuff.  I couldn't find
        a way to make the table-chair thing work.

Captain:
        What, those things? They're designed that way, so you won't sit there
        and clutter up the area all day. -- No, I don't know.  That's just my theory.
        One of Celebrimbor's early projects -- gorgeous as water, but as comfortable
        as a pile of rocks.

Beren:
        Less, I thought.

Captain:
        You didn't think people were sitting on hassocks and rugs and column footings
        over there to be artistic and create an elegant tableau, did you? --Though around
        here one never knows . . .

Steward:
        There you are, milord. I thought you'd vanished again.

Beren: [soberly]
        No openwork vaulting in here.

Steward: [deadpan]
        I am certain some could be arranged, but probably not before lunchtime,
        I'm afraid. --Is that an empty glass beside you? Let me take that back
        and show them. Here is yours, milord. I brought the damson juice; I trust
        that it meets with your approval.

Beren: [tasting]
        It does.  It's excellent. Thank you.
    [sets the goblet aside and takes out his eating-knife.]
        If you will forgive me, sirs -- I'll eat in your presence, for as Da
        always said, if people will drop by at mealtime they'd best not expect
        me to stop for them -- but I would no less than my folks that you stay,
        and join me if you'd like, for my mother's table never lacked another
        place.

    [He offers choice of what's on his plate: they are visibly moved.]

Captain:
        No, I've ended my fast hours ago. But I thank you, Lord Beren.

    [The Steward only shakes his head.  Beren begins to cut the little
    Lady-apples into halves but halts when an imposingly-regal individual
    approaches them, and his two companions at once come to attention.]

Captain: [salutes]
        Your Highness.

Steward:
        My lord Barahirion, may I make known to you our good King's brother and
        coordinator of the realm's defenses --

Beren: [putting aside his meal
        -- Prince Orodreth --

Orodreth:
        Please -- do not rise.  I've no wish to impose upon you after the rigors of
        your journey! I only wished to say, at outset -- how much -- without delay,
        that is -- that I admire your many valiant efforts in the field and have
        always hoped and prayed for your continued success -- that is, when of course
        report more than insubstantial rumor has arrived, since the course of reliable
        news from out of the North has naturally dwindled in past years -- Not that
        I am blaming you in the least, my lord Beren, far to the contrary -- Rather
        I wanted to express my sorrow for your grievous losses -- and to express
        my gratitude for your own good works, on behalf of all our peoples. -- I also
        -- as a father -- would like to thank you for your kind indulgence to my
        daughter's fancies -- though, in truth, were it not for the exigencies of
        my job I'd have likely been asking for your autograph the other day as well!
        Her fiancee hasn't stopped talking about you these last two days either --
        prepare yourself for much curiosity, my lord. Nargothrond wishes to thank
        our hereditary champion -- not least impressive for the fact of your mortality --

Beren: [as Orodreth appears to be waiting for something, uncertainly:]
        -- You're welcome?

Orodreth: [a touch relieved]
        You do me honor, Lord of Dorthonion.  I trust I'll see you presently in council?

Beren:
        You know more than I do, I'm afraid, Your Highness.

Orodreth:
        Ah. I did not mean to put you on the spot. milord. Now if you'll forgive me,
        I've got to run--

    [Apparently by accident, the Steward half turns to bow in reply and simultaneously
    tread on the Ranger Captain's boot as Orodreth takes off.]

Beren: [staring after Orodreth]
        Was that supposed to make sense? Or am I still asleep? Which I gather from
        his words lasted rather more than one night, and I'm not surprised at all.
        That's gotta have been good for another three years . . .

Captain: [lowered voice]
        He lost his nerve. Left our final position of defense to Morgoth's top commander
        after a battle significant in its utter absence, and fled back to Nargothrond with
        the gates wide open. The only thing he didn't do was wait to give Sauron the grand
        tour of the place.

Steward:
        You haven't talked to the people who came back from there. It was something
        beyond reason, something which sent everyone there into the same funk as
        the Night of Darkness. I doubt that anyone could have held out longer than
        the Prince did.

Captain:
        Do you think the King would have neglected to at least tear the place down
        before he left? Not left it standing there for our Enemy to use, and give him
        for free the best terrain in the region! -- All right, I'll stop.

    [to Beren]

        But that's what's behind his apology, lad. After Tol Sirion fell, the Enemy's
        troops were pretty much able to plough through us wherever they wanted, having
        a fine base of operations to work out from, and we were no longer able to
        control them in Beleriand at all.

Beren:
        Oh. --Ohhh . . .
    [frowning as he begins to understand, and put many things together. Perhaps he would
    ask more, or say something, but Celebrimbor son of Curufin approaches, wearing a
    somewhat distracted expression. (The actual source of his apparent rudeness is as
    much inventorly preoccupation as awareness of his own exalted heritage, but this
    would not be obvious at once to a bystander.)]

Celebrimbor:
        Has any of you lot seen my glass? I think I forgot it over here . . .

    [The Steward hands it to him with a Look.]

        I know, I know, I'm sorry -- I was writing in my tablets and I've only
        got two hands --

    [checks]

        I say, is that the famous Ring?

    [He seizes Beren's wrist and yanks his hand up for a better look, apple and all,
    leaving Beren staring in astonishment at the eating-knife in his right.]

Beren:
        Ah -- excuse me?

    [The grandson of Feanor looks at him with mild surprise as though not anticipating
    him capable of speech. As the expectant pause extends and the other Elves look at
    him with disapproval, Celebrimbor blushes in realization of his error and clears
    his throat, releasing Beren's arm and bowing formally.]

Celebrimbor:
        I was wondering -- might I examine it more closely, please?
        I've a technical interest in the metal arts.

    [Wordlessly Beren removes the Ring and passes it to him.]

Celebrimbor:
        Amazing, how such a trinket can summon kings to do one's bidding...

    [When done he returns it and is about to leave, but notices the Looks he is
    getting from the Steward and the Captain.]

         Thank you, er, Barahirion.

    [moves away to the far side of the solar and his friends.]

Beren: [amazed]
        It's like I didn't even exist.

Steward:
        Don't let it trouble you, milord.

Captain:
        They're all like that -- Shiplords. Unless you can do something for them.

Steward:
        Actually, Lord Celebrimbor is not the worst.

Captain:
        It would be very difficult to be worse than his father.

Steward:
        His uncle is always civil, at least to me.

Captain