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After Aredhel’s disappearance and return, Beren expected fear to grow like vines up the walls of the fort. Nobody would dare to enter Hithlum again, not even to trade for what they needed in the scarce months of late winter. Nobody would trust their neighbors, when a wolf had been revealed among deer.
But Mithrim proved him wrong. Whether it was Fingolfin’s calm willingness to explain every detail of how they had found and rescued Aredhel (and Celegorm, though Curufin took jealous ownership of that), or Abe Phillips’ proud realization that his friend Azaghal had been a staunch ally in a time of need, trade resumed cautiously but surely in those days, while the hard season was handed over to the growing one. The earth softened, and people softened. That had always been Beren’s experience. He should have trusted his heart’s knowledge now, instead of predicting bitterness.
He was glad to be surprised.
Maedhros began to walk again—slow and heavy-leaning on his crutch at first, but with steady progress. The snow-pale boy that Aredhel found in the forest lifted up his head when he was spoken to, and followed lonely Turgon with faithful steps. The children went by new names, sometimes, before becoming tired of the strangeness and reverting to their old ones.
Beren was a friend to all who would let him be so. His only disappointment was Celegorm, who withdrew even further within his high-walled self after his recovery from the wounds he bore from surviving. He even shunned his dog, at times, leaving Huan behind while he hunted.
That, at least, was Beren’s gain. When Huan could not have Fingon to trot after and adore, he was content to sit beside Beren and let his great shaggy head be gently stroked.
He still cares for you, said Beren to the hound. Huan blinked up at him as if he understood.
Wachiwi went often to Hithlum, because she had passed through it now and again with Haleth, and indeed, she expected to receive word from Haleth there before long. Wachiwi sent her own messages, in a written language that the Haladin shared, by the Hithlum post. In the meantime, she brought back new cloth and fresh spices and became known for having a fierce eye for good leather. She liked to crow over her bargains, and Beren enjoyed her crowing.
By the reckoning of their settler friends, it was now early March. Beren cared not for the name of the month; he could only feel the warmth rising, and hear more and more birds singing in the dawn.
As always, he dreamed of Luthien.
Sometimes he told Finrod his dreams.
I like the sound of this Doriath place, said Finrod. However much a bear her father is. Perhaps we ought to go there in disguise, and steal her away. Don’t you think she’d like to be stolen away, Beren?
Beren had shaken his head, laughing a little, for Finrod always made him laugh.
Still, he was trapped in his longing like sap in a frozen tree. He was as eager for word from Haleth as Wachiwi was, for it was his only chance of hearing about Luthien.
It was a matter of strange coincidence that Beren was comforting Wachiwi in her frustration—she had come back that afternoon with a crate of yellow-fluffed chicks for Caranthir, but no news—just as news arrived.
Wister and Silas arrived, more precisely. Wister was the same as always, when Beren and Wachiwi reached the bridge to greet him—and to prevent Homer from shooting him. Homer was dull, Beren knew, and when he did work himself into a state of suspicion, it was hard to get him out of it. Wachiwi had to insist very firmly that these were not strangers at all, but friends.
In truth, Beren scarcely remembered Silas. There had been so many rescued, and Silas seemed much taller and stronger than any half-grown boy Beren recalled. He had a broad, high hat, just as Wister did, and a collection of knives at his belt.
“Is Sticks here?” he asked, when Wachiwi inquired if there was anybody he wanted to see. “And Frog?”
“They are here,” Beren said. “Gwindor too, and—”
“And Russandol,” said Wachiwi, with the practiced ease of somebody who spent most of her time with Fingon, and therefore had Maedhros at the forefront of every thought.
Silas had looked more like a man than a boy until just now. But at the mention of Russandol, Beren watched his face slacken a little with relief, and reminded himself that there was something, on the other side of longing and loneliness.
Once the newcomers were safely brought in, everybody joked and laughed and said it was as natural as anything that they should come to Mithrim and not Hithlum. Wister, with great ceremony, unfolded a sheaf of papers from his satchel, which were all dispatches and pamphlets he had collected along the way. Silas’ hat had somehow found its way on to Frog’s head.
The young chickens had been given a temporary pen beside the fire. Farther off, Wachiwi was reading a note in the corner, a scrap no larger than her hand. Beren could not tell from her face whether she liked what it said.
He turned his attention back to Wister, who was giving Ames’ greetings to Finrod.
Finrod and Ames had fancied each other—in a way. Finrod loved so many with a golden, steady affection that Beren could not imagine him burning for any one woman as Beren burned for Luthien.
He wondered again if Wachiwi had a message, through Haleth, for him.
The visitors stayed the night. Silas was deep in conversation with Gwindor and Maedhros, who retreated less and less often to his own room. Beren sat by the fireside (opposite the chickens), with Huan come to join him—a development that set a little bit of a storm on Celegorm’s brow.
I am sorry, Beren thought, but did not say. I do not mean to steal your dog from you.
But oh, how often he had been accused of thieving! By Thingol most of all—but Thingol had it all wrong. It was Beren who had given, heart and twisted hand, body and mind, to Luthien forever.
“Beren.”
It was Wachiwi.
He stiffened, as if waking from a dream, or entering one.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “No message for you. But Haleth—” and here, a smile broke over her face, bright even in the shadows—“Haleth is coming soon.”