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Dark from the North now blew the cloud; the winds of autumn cold and loud hissed in the heather; sad and grey Aeluin's mournful water lay. 'Son Beren', then said Barahir, 'Thou knowst the rumour that we hear of strength from the Gaurhoth that is sent against us; and our food nigh spent. On thee the lot falls by our law to go forth now alone to draw what help thou canst from the hidden few that feed us still, and what is new to learn. Good fortune go with thee! In speed return, for grudgingly we spare thee from our brotherhood, so small: and Gorlim in the wood is long astray or dead. Farewell!' As Beren went, still like a knell resounded in his heart that word, the last of his father that he heard.
Through moor and fen, by tree and briar he wandered far: he saw the fire of Sauron's camp, he heard the howl of hunting Orc and wolf a-prowl,

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and turning back, for long the way, benighted in the forest lay. In weariness he then must sleep, fain in a badger-hole to creep, and yet he heard (or dreamed it so) nearby a marching legion go with clink of mail and clash of shields up towards the stony mountain-fields. He slipped then into darkness down, until, as man that waters drown strives upwards gasping, it seemed to him he rose through slime beside the brim of sullen pool beneath dead trees. Their livid boughs in a cold breeze trembled, and all their black leaves stirred: each leaf a black and croaking bird, whose neb a gout of blood let fall. He shuddered, struggling thence to crawl through winding weeds, when far away he saw a shadow faint and grey gliding across the dreary lake. Slowly it came, and softly spake: 'Gorlim I was, but now a wraith of will defeated, broken faith, traitor betrayed. Go! Stay not here! Awaken, son of Barahir, and haste! For Morgoth's fingers close upon thy father's throat; he knows your trysts, your paths, your secret lair.' Then he revealed the devil's snare in which he fell, and failed; and last begging forgiveness, wept, and passed out into darkness. Beren woke, leapt up as one by sudden stroke with fire of anger filled. His bow and sword he seized, and like the roe hotfoot o'er rock and heath he sped before the dawn. Ere day was dead to Aeluin at last he came, as the red sun westward sank in flame; but Aeluin was red with blood, red were the stones and trampled mud. Black in the birches sat a-row the raven and the carrion crow; wet were their nebs, and dark the meat that dripped beneath their griping feet. One croaked: 'Ha, ha, he comes too late!' 'Ha, ha!' they answered, 'ha! too late!' There Beren laid his father's bones in haste beneath a cairn of stones; no graven rune nor word he wrote o'er Barahir, but thrice he smote the topmost stone, and thrice aloud he cried his name. 'Thy death', he vowed, 'I will avenge. Yea, though my fate should lead at last to Angband's gate.' And then he turned, and did not weep: too dark his heart, the wound too deep. Out into night, as cold as stone, loveless, friendless, he strode alone.

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Of hunter's lore he had no need the trail to find. With little heed his ruthless foe, secure and proud, marched north away with blowing loud of brazen horns their lord to greet, trampling the earth with grinding feet. Behind them bold but wary went now Beren, swift as hound on scent, until beside a darkling well, where Rivil rises from the fell down into Serech's reeds to flow, he found the slayers, found his foe. From hiding on the hillside near he marked them all: though less than fear, too many for his sword and bow to slay alone. Then, crawling low as snake in heath, he nearer crept. There many weary with marching slept, but captains, sprawling on the grass, drank and from hand to hand let pass their booty, grudging each small thing raped from dead bodies. One a ring held up, and laughed: 'Now, mates,' he cried 'here's mine! And I'll not be denied, though few be like it in the land. For I 'twas wrenched it from the hand of that same Barahir I slew, the robber-knave. If tales be true, he had it of some elvish lord, for the rogue-service of his sword. No help it gave to him – he's dead. They're parlous, elvish rings, 'tis said; still for the gold I'll keep it, yea and so eke out my niggard pay. Old Sauron bade me bring it back, and yet, methinks, he has no lack of weightier treasures in his hoard: the greater the greedier the lord! So mark ye, mates, ye all shall swear the hand of Barahir was bare!' And as he spoke an arrow sped from tree behind, and forward dead choking he fell with barb in throat; with leering face the earth he smote. Forth, then as wolfhound grim there leapt Beren among them. Two he swept aside with sword; caught up the ring; slew one who grasped him; with a spring back into shadow passed, and fled before their yells of wrath and dread of ambush in the valley rang. Then after him like wolves they sprang, howling and cursing, gnashing teeth, hewing and bursting through the heath, shooting wild arrows, sheaf on sheaf, at trembling shade or shaken leaf.

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In fateful hour was Beren born: he laughed at dart and wailing horn; fleetest of foot of living men, tireless on fell and light on fen, elf-wise in wood, he passed away, defended by his hauberk grey of dwarvish craft in Nogrod made, where hammers rang in cavern's shade.
As fearless Beren was renowned: when men most hardy upon ground were reckoned folk would speak his name, foretelling that his after-fame would even golden Hador pass or Barahir and Bregolas; but sorrow now his heart had wrought to fierce despair, no more he fought in hope of life or joy or praise, but seeking so to use his days only that Morgoth deep should feel the sting of his avenging steel, ere death he found and end of pain: his only fear was thraldom's chain. Danger he sought and death pursued, and thus escaped the doom he wooed, and deeds of breathless daring wrought alone, of which the rumour brought new hope to many a broken man. They whispered 'Beren', and began in secret swords to whet, and soft by shrouded hearths at evening oft songs they would sing of Beren's bow, of Dagmor his sword: how he would go silent to camps and slay the chief, or trapped in his hiding past belief would slip away, and under night by mist or moon, or by the light of open day would come again. Of hunters hunted, slayers slain they sang, of Gorgol the Butcher hewn, of ambush in Ladros, fire in Drun, of thirty in one battle dead, of wolves that yelped like curs and fled, yea, Sauron himself with wound in hand. Thus one alone filled all that land with fear and death for Morgoth's folk; his comrades were the beech and oak who failed him not, and wary things with fur and fell and feathered wings that silent wander, or dwell alone in hill and wild and waste of stone watched o'er his ways, his faithful friends.

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Yet seldom well an outlaw ends; and Morgoth was a king more strong than all the world has since in song recorded: dark athwart the land reached out the shadow of his hand, at each recoil returned again; two more were sent for one foe slain. New hope was cowed, all rebels killed; quenched were the fires, the songs were stilled, tree felled, heath burned, and through the waste marched the black host of Orcs in haste.
Almost they closed their ring of steel round Beren; hard upon his heel now trod their spies; within their hedge of all aid shorn, upon the edge of death at bay he stood aghast and knew that he must die at last, or flee the land of Barahir, his land beloved. Beside the mere beneath a heap of nameless stones must crumble those once mighty bones, forsaken by both son and kin, bewailed by reeds of Aeluin.
In winter's night the houseless North he left behind, and stealing forth the leaguer of his watchful foe he passed – a shadow on the snow, a swirl of wind, and he was gone, the ruin of Dorthonion, Tarn Aeluin and its water wan, never again to look upon. No more shall hidden bowstring sing, no more his shaven arrows wing, no more his hunted head shall lie upon the heath beneath the sky. The Northern stars, whose silver fire of old Men named the Burning Briar, were set behind his back, and shone o'er land forsaken: he was gone.
Southward he turned, and south away his long and lonely journey lay, while ever loomed before his path the dreadful peaks of Gorgorath. Never had foot of man most bold yet trod those mountains steep and cold, nor climbed upon their sudden brink, whence, sickened, eyes must turn and shrink to see their southward cliffs fall sheer in rocky pinnacle and pier down into shadows that were laid before the sun and moon were made. In valleys woven with deceit and washed with waters bitter-sweet dark magic lurked in gulf and glen; but out away beyond the ken of mortal sight the eagle's eye from dizzy towers that pierced the sky might grey and gleaming see afar, as sheen on water under star, Beleriand, Beleriand, the borders of the Elven-land.