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None knew how it came to be that Morgoth returned to middle earth. He came, with fury and darkness, cold and fire, and Beleriand broke before him.
Doriath was forewarned, if only a little. Melian’s caution protected them at least enough that they were not overrun, at least enough to hold for a little while. Morgoth could not overcome her girdle, at least not yet.
And so Doriath became a realm besieged, an island in the dark. Beyond her was a twisted land, a world conquered of elves enslaved, of secondborn suborned.
Never was there a Finrod on this shore. Never was there music of a harp at night, never a pair of eyes, wondrously bright, never long conversations beside a campfire, wisdom gifted and long stories held in trade. So no ring of Barahir was given, and neither any promise. But still, men yearned, and they fled, and they dreamed of lands unshadowed by Morgoth’s thrall. And so there were bands of men, free in the wilderness, if only for a little while. And the men told stories, twisted, frightening, of the fair folk, of those left far behind, wild and strange in a free and wild time before the great master came, and of those who lived yet, strong and unknowable, fortressed within the nightmare wood.
So Beren lived. He lived still when all his people died, last of his proud and vagabond house, escaped from thralldom if only for a little while. Beren was born unchained by Morgoth’s tyranny, and he would not die captive. And so alone, hunter and hunted, he turned at last resort to enter Melian’s girdle, the fae land of dread.
None in Doriath knew how Morgoth came, or why the Powers of the west did not pursue him; how it was that no word came and no warning. All they knew was that he came and brought darkness, and the sun followed not long after, but she was distant and brought with her neither aid nor news. All they knew was that he was here, unassailed, and in his crown wore jewels that shone with a light akin to that seen only in the eyes of Thranduil the king, a light not of his making.
Luthien danced in Doriath, beneath bright sun and sheltering shade, and war did not touch her. The rumor of the second born’s coming was a distant thing, and whether they were Illuvitar’s children in truth or more of Morgoth’s creatures was a subject of much debate. War did not touch Luthien, and neither did pain or suffering, and she knew little of it. But she knew it in the strange creature who found her dancing beneath dappled light. He came from outside the safety she had always known, and the things outside she knew little of and cared less, but she knew them all to be ugly, broken things, things with no place within Melian’s realm. He came from outside, and his face was carved by suffering, his motions honed by war, and pain was etched into the lines of his body, and looking at him for the first time she saw and knew these things. But his eyes were weighed down with kindness, and when they reached her they shone with awe. He came from outside, outside the woods that nurtured all beautiful things, and kept out the rotting dark. He was from outside, and inside green and growing Doriath, he stood out as an aberration, incongruous with its gentle glory. And yet, Luthien looked at him, and found that never in all her life had she beheld anything so beautiful.
Thus Thranduil found his daughter and the vagabond, intruder in the sacred land which Melian held so long (it could not be forever). Thranduil had them brought into his court, to the very heart of his realm, and fear smote him, and dread. Because Beren harkened not evil, but change, and Doriath stood balanced on a needle point, an equilibrium held, but not eternal. Beren stood before the king, and Luthien held his hand, defiant.
Morgoth’s darkness held a light which was not his own, a light which Thranduil remembered from long ago. Its echo lived now in the sun and in the moon, but the jewels were a purer distillation.
Beren was an impossibility, holding fast to his daughter’s hand. His daughter would not release him, and in her eyes was a terrifying certainty, a terrible crack in the sameness which has been joy and safety for them for so long. Beren was impossible, and so Thranduil granted him an impossible task.
Beren had entered the forest of nightmares, that even the enemy’s greatest servants could not survive. He had entered the forest, and fought through it and gained entry to the land of myth where the light was kind and all things were growing and no poison tainted the air. Beren had come to the impossible land, and he had found a fairy princess, and she had smiled upon him and taken his hand. Luthien held his hand still, her grip firm, her bearing furious. Beren, who had done the impossible, looked at Thranduil king, last ruler of a free people in a free land, husband to a goddess, and he laughed.
“For little price, do elven-kings sell their daughters,” he said. And then he set forth to steal a Silmaril.