Now messages came to Beren
Away southwards in Tol Galen
About the dwarf-host at the Ford
Of all that happened untoward.
A second message then arrived
By flying feet that late contrived
In words relating all the sack
Of Menegroth, the dwarf-attack –
All pitiless, no mercy shewn,
Elf-corpses everywhere lay strewn.
And now Lord Nogrod marched away…
Then Beren swore: the dwarves would pay!
His anger rising, told his son –
Dior – their vengeance had begun!
They ride out on the morrow morn
They blow the green elves’ battle-horn.
The green elves gather in their ranks
And marching northwards to the banks
Of River Ascar at the Ford
They lie in ambush. Bow and sword
Are ready to each elven hand.
Their scouts are sent to comb the land.
The dwarves they locate easily
Retreating eastwards painfully.
Their fighting host is much reduced
From what it was: being hardly used
At Menegroth. Yet still they were
Of foemen yet a great number.
The dwarf invaders reached the banks
Of River Ascar. On their flanks
Elf arrows whistled. Feathered shafts
Appeared and sank their bloodied hafts
Into the necks and arms of foes.
Then many dwarves in swift death-throes
Fell writhing. Quick a circle round
Lord Nogrod formed. The battle-ground:
Shields to the front, dwarf-axes swinging.
All around them bugles singing
From each bush, behind each tree
Elf arrows whistled constantly.
Then with a dreadful, battle-shout
Beren and his green elves charged out
With blade and falchion, spear and sword
To fall upon the Nogrod Lord.
No quarter asked. And none was given.
Too deep were mutual hatreds driven!
Vengeance taken, vengeance paid.
No mercy begged – and none displayed!
The dwarves are hewn to the ground:
Their ever smaller circle found
No room – except to stand and die!
The green elves fall on steadily.
Beren himself Lord Nogrod slays.
The blood-debt – late contracted – pays!
The stubborn dwarf while dying, laid
His curse upon the treasure made
By plundering the Thousand Caves.
Though bleeding, to the end he’d gaze
With endless longing, looking still
As Beren takes his Silmaril.
A final look. Lorg Nogrod sighs.
Reluctantly, the dwarf-lord dies.
The fight is over. All is done.
Beren and the green elves won!
But none cursed treasure would they take
And willingly it all forsake
To sink it between flowing banks
Of Ascar’s River. There they sank
All to the bottom where it gleamed.
The river now all golden seemed.
Thus is its name in later times
Named Goldenbed in elvish rhymes.
There Beren washed the Nauglamir:
Its blood-stains all the waters bore
Away. The hallowed Silmaril
No curse could blight. Though others still
Might lust to own the hallowed gem
That supreme work of elfin men
Created in the days of yore
By master-craftsman Fëanor.
But while Beren and Lúthien kept
The Silmaril, the oath now slept
That bound the sons of Fëanor
The Silmarils to them restore.
Victorious, all back they came.
Beren Tol Galen does regain.
‘Tis whispered some dwarves ‘scaped the slaughter
Crossed over the river’s water
Passed the Ford of Stones and fled
In terror on the paths that led
Towards their mountains without pause.
Still fearing for their lives – with cause –
They thought that they’d no safety find
Until returned amongst dwarf-kind.
But in the foothills, something strange
Occurred beneath their mountain range
The forrest moved. And walking trees
Across their path with dream-like ease
Herded the dwarves in terror round.
Retreat cut off. The dwarves confound.
‘Tis whispered then Tree Shepherds come
To recompense deeds evil done.
And not one of those dwarves, they say,
Was seen alive after that day.
Small comfort though to Lúthien
Of vengeance wreaked could bring Beren.
She little cared for dwarven dead:
Her father slain! Her mother fled!
Her eyes, though, lit up when drew near
Beren bearing the Nauglamir:
Her father’s chain with Beren’s gem.
He gave it unto Lúthien.
So Lúthien wore it from that time.
And it is said Tol Galen’s clime
Much changed became: a fairer place
Than any other land or space
In Middle Earth was never seen
Since that time, or indeed, has been.
The land so fair, so bounteous
So full of light, by Valar blessed:
An echo of across the sea
What Valinor itself must be.
This Land in which the Two who’d Died
But Lived again, was fair beside
As long as Beren lived to dwell
With Lúthien and the Silmaril.
Nor did the sons of Fëanor
Despite their oath – dare venture near.
Restrained by fear, by very shame,
By awe at princess Lúthien’s name:
The only elf who pity moved
In Mandos’ self, whose singing proved
Its power in his halls of gloom,
Her voice filling Mandos’ throne-room.
She’d sang as never elf-kind sang
Before: of parting sorrow’s pang.
She’d wept – and begged Mandos restore
Beren to life. And Mandos had.
Good reason had she to be glad!
Their son, Dior, to Menegroth
Returned to rule in Doriath –
King Thingol’s heir. While in that place
He gathered all the Sindar race
Far scattered by the tides of war
To rebuild all as ’twas before,
As far as could be. Though ’twas plain
Doriath could not be great again.
When leaving, Dior little knew
What twists fate in his future threw.
He never thought leaving that place
He’d not see either parents’ face
Again. Thus Tol Galen he leaves.
Him Doriath once more receives.
Years passed. As autumn’s colours bright
Clothed all the wood, one moonlit night
A messenger approached the throne
For audience with the king – alone.
Dior receives him. Then is placed
Within his hands a coffer graced
With wooden carvings fine displayed.
The messenger withdraws. Dismayed
King Dior absently grants leave.
His aching heart begins to grieve.
Alone Dior the coffer lid
Opens. Inside – he knew – is hid
The Nauglamir and Silmaril.
King Dior kenned the message well:
His parents both in Galen dead:
Their souls from their twain bodies sped.
From Arda have their spirits passed
As mortals all must do – at last –
As sundered from this world they go
To where – none of the elves do know.
That day Dior the Nauglamir
Around his comely neck did wear.
And from that time King Dior seemed
The fairest elf-king. For all deemed
In his one person mingled lines
Of Maia, elf, and the Edains.
The Silmaril’s bright inner fire
Soon awakes the wrath and ire
Of all the sons of Fëanor.
They angrily demand Dior –
By threats – the Silmaril return
Or at their hands dread vengeance earn.
What then would Doriath’s King Dior?
Would he relinquish and restore
The Silmaril? Would he refuse?
What course should then King Dior choose?
On razor’s edge balanced success
Nor would he get a second guess.
Would he be slain? Would he prevail?
Well, that is for another another tale.
But here now having said our say
Concludes recital of this lay.
Finis.
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