Вот, запостю маааленький кусочек, чтоб хоть показать, что не отлыниваю.
Chapter 1. Beren.
Just as the melting of the snows began and the mountain paths were cleared, he was surrounded. Sauron and Boldog left nothing to chance: wolves and orcs combed forest after forest, ravine after ravine, tightening the semicircle ever so closely around the hidden gorge in the foothills, where the old witch’s hut stood.
The witch died on the day of Sunturn and Beren was left alone with her goat. He buried the witch and wanted to slaughter the goat, but decided not to touch it till need came. The winter had passed and the need came: the orcs were approaching and there was no way to break through the encirclement. Beren slaughtered the goat and dried its meat. He packed what he could not afford to leave behind and set out.
On the next day, from the shoulder of the Wuthering Mother he saw orcs and wolves milling around the hut. But Beren was already far away and the wet snow had covered his tracks.
When after a month Beren came down from the other side of the Ered Gorgor, there was not much left of him, and when he got out Nan Dungortheb – he was almost completely gone. Not discerning day and night, rocks and trees, bushes and animals, possible enemies and possible friends, he moved on – slowly, tenaciously and thoughtlessly, like an intricate Noldor clockwork toy. The shingly riverbed, that filled up only come springtime – the weidh – gave the direction: where the water made its way, so could a man. Beren went on. In his agony he has lost the moment when the pebbles stopped hurting his feet. All around him was dark, and he could not tell anymore whether it was night or complete blindness.
Then he saw a light in the distance, heard laughter, voices and music, and, gasping for breath, he stumbled that way, no longer hoping that these were people and not some phantom, conjured by his fevered mind...