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Out in the cold I still wait for her call
And her last kiss, it shall be release
I can't forget her, her face will not leave
From the depths of my soul I long for her
(When sorrow sang, Blind Guardian)
Loving her had been madness.
He couldn't have defined otherwise what he felt. Not when he had always known that they had no hope - not when both of them had always known - and it hadn't been enough for him to forget her.
He should never have listened to Tinúviel's song the day they had met. If he had resisted the temptation to look at her, now he wouldn't have had to see his blood running colder and colder on the ground.
And she shouldn't have risked everything. She wouldn't have cried, not for him.
But as life left him, Beren couldn't stop remembering the day he had first heard Lúthien's voice — and she had healed him.
She had made him forget the darkness and pain he had wandered in for too long. She had made him believe that he was no longer condemned to bear the guilt of having survived.
It had been a song of serenity, the one she had sung under the stars, before hiding from his gaze. And it had been a song of love that had gushed between her lips as she pressed against him, determined not to let him go, even though they both knew what fate they were facing.
They had been mad in staying together. Even without the dangers in their path, they would never find happiness. They had always been destined to be separated forever, and believing that they could unite, even if only for the short time they had managed to wrest from fate, had brought only suffering.
The king had been right. Without him, she would never have been in any danger. She would never have suffered. She would have had the happy immortal life she was destined for, and nothing could have disturbed her perfection.
But it had been a song of peace, that of the moment they had met again, as she washed away the pain of the wounds of his body and spirit even knowing that it would not be enough to give them a way out.
Perhaps now his Lúthien would sing a song of pain.
He was not worthy of it. But he wanted to hear her voice again.
Desire for her had bound him to her, beyond all reason. Now he would pay the price. And he had always had the certainty that it would happen. Sooner or later, he would have to leave her anyway. Whether it happened now or after time and years had consumed him no longer mattered.
But Tinúviel had loved him, and the life that was eluding him had been sweeter than the one he would have had if he had continued to wander around waiting to join his father.
He wished that his sight would be clear enough to see her one last time. He longed to taste her kisses again, and to hear the song that rang in his memories replacing her crying and prayers. He wished he could live the rest of his mortal existence with the knowledge that she had chosen him.
Instead he could not do anything but die looking at her, hearing her beg to wait for her. But that would have been enough. At least his last moments would be with her.
Loving her had been madness, Beren thought, but even he with his last breath he could not regret it.