Hello everyone! Yes, I have finally gotten the epilogue up, but don't think it has a concluding ending. I found while I was writing it, that if I went any farther, I would be talking more about Beren, then of my original intent to focus on Gorlim. But the plot bunny had already attacked, so I had to write this little extra thing.

I hope you enjoy!

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Hushed whispers were carried along the wind through the leaves and grasses of Dorthonion. They continued their wistful journey down and over the Barahir's camp, going all but ignored by Barahir's eleven men there. Next, the wind took the whispers across the blue of the Tarn Aeluin, leaving nothing but rippled wakes behind. It was a distance beyond the opposite side of the lake, where the whispers blew past the twelfth member of the group.

Beren, son of Barahir.

He trudged through the undergrowth, occasionally brushing aside a stray branch. He remained cautious, alert eyes scanning the terrain thoroughly before taking even one more step. It was a crucial thing, being wary and vigilant. Who knew what could be going on in Dorthonion since Gorlim left?

The group had been uneasy since the departure of their companion and friend. Everyone was caught between emotions. In some way, some were fearful for their lost friend. Others had become nervous, for none knew how Gorlim's might affect the safety of their hideaway. Still others had now developed a bitter hatred for Gorlim, scorning his name whenever it was spoken.

Barahir's first priority was the safety of the group. Early that morning, he had sent his son off to scout the area, and see what he could discover of the enemy's movements. It was hard for him, Beren knew. The decision of how best to protect the group, and yet at the same time Dorthonion. Beren's mind told him that his father had chosen correctly, to keep the group at Tarn Aeluin.

Though somewhere deep in his heart, wondered if maybe it would have been wiser to flee.

Darkness was falling, and Beren was tiring. Searching, he discovered a small hollow in the bank beside the lake. Hiding in there, he slept lightly; enough to recover his strength, but light enough that the slightest sound would wake him.

Beren slept, and he dreamed . . . .

In his dream, he found himself back at the camp. He looked around to find his companions, but they were nowhere to be found. The place was empty.

He felt something touch his cheek and looked up. It had begun to rain. Then Beren felt an uneasy feeling stirring. The sky didn't seem to be pouring the rain the way it should. Instead, it seemed to bleed the rain, drop by drop, as if the raindrops were literally squeezed out of the clouds. Listening closely with more than his ears, Beren could almost hear moans and grieving sighs.

Thoroughly frightened, he began to run to the water. Tarn Aeluin was hallowed! How could such sorrow and evil come to this place?

A few steps away from the edge, he halted, a startled expression on his face. He saw Gorlim.

Beren's jaw dropped slightly. Gorlim's form was hovering a few inches above the water, wavering slightly as though seen through heat waves. But what had fully brought Beren to a stop, was the stabbing pain in his friend's eyes.

"Beren," Gorlim began to speak, seeming to force the words out through trembling lips. "Beren, go back."

"Gorlim, what happened? Why are you here?" Beren walked forward until he was waist deep in the swirling water. "Gorlim?"

Gorlim's eyes hardened. "Listen to me Beren!" He spoke harshly. "Go back! Take your father and your companions and flee!"

The rain increased, splashing into the lake with such intensity that the water almost seemed to be boiling. Still, Beren did not move.

"Gorlim! Tell me what's going on!" He pleaded.

The pain came back into Gorlim's eyes. "I have betrayed you all." He whispered.

Before Beren could reply, a flock of carrion birds burst out from the water, croaking loudly and throwing the water about with even greater force. Beren could still hear Gorlim, shouting now, to be heard over the carrion birds.

"FLEE! GO, BEREN! WARN YOUR FATHER! GO!"

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Beren woke with a start, his heart pounding.

Gorlim's words rung in his ears.

He immediately got to his feet, and ran as fast as he could back to the camp. As he ran, it began to rain.

The first thing he saw when he finally returned to camp on the second morning was the carrion birds.

Then he saw the bodies. The corpses of his friends, lying on the ground in pools of blood.

At last, he found his father's broken body, eyes open and staring at the sky in frozen agony. Beren closed them, and then saw that Barahir's hand had been cut off. It was the hand that had the Ring of Felagund.

Beren swore an oath of vengeance, and began after the orcs, following their tracks into the now dark, forbidding trees of Dorthonion.

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First there for he pursued the Orcs that had slain his father and his kinsmen, and he found their camp by night at Rivil's Well above the Fen of Serech, and because of his wood craft he came near to their fire unseen. There their captain made boast of his deeds, and he held up the hand of Barahir that he had cut off as a token for Sauron that their mission was fulfilled; and the ring of Felagund was on that hand. Then Beren sprang from behind rock, and slew captain, and taking the hand and the ring he escaped, being defended by fate for the Orcs were dismayed, and their arrows wild.

(Silmarillion, Of Beren and Luthien.)

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