The Son of Beren
by Mooselk
It was a tragedy, but how was I to know that the beautiful stranger in the woods had been Lúthien's son? It had not been three decades since I had held his tiny body on my lap: the idea that my dear friend was that child did not even cross my mind.
He was still watching my face, waiting for my response. It was after he asked that we came to the startling realization that I did not know his name. And, oh Elbereth, he was Dior. He was twenty-nine years old and he had asked for my hand in marriage.
"Nimloth, are you alright?" he laughed, eyes crinkling - how bright his emotions were! How volatile and unexpected and sweet!
I sat down heavily on a log and stared up at him. He was twenty-nine years old. At twenty-nine, I had barely been old enough to leave the village on my own, yet here he stood, looking like an elf of several yeni. And in the last few days he had definitely proven that he was an adult.
I love him, I thought suddenly. I love him.
"Yes, I'll marry you, Dior, but you know, it is traditional to court a lady before making such a proposal."
His face rippled, the smile sliding downwards, his eyes becoming serious.
"I do not have time to play the elaborate games of betrothal. I am twenty nine years old, Nimloth. My father is twice my age, and his hair is as white as frost. Soon he will be dead." He plopped down beside me, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "There is no time to lose for the son of Beren."
"Oh Dior, but you are the son of Lúthien also!" I said, taking his hand in mine.
"Lúthien is mortal also," he muttered, and swiveled around to face me. I had never before seen him so serious. Alas, it was an expression I would come to know well in the coming years.
"Lúthien is mortal, and so am I. Nimloth, I will die. But if you marry me, I will at least die a happy man."
"Dior, do not talk so! You are scaring me. I will marry you, and we will live a long and prosperous life together. " I squeezed his hand tightly, pushing my own doubts as far back as they will go.
"You will? Oh, Nimloth, thank you!" His smile was back instantly. Ah, my beloved friend. How elven you looked! And how human you truly were!
My mother wept when I told her. "It will break your heart, Nimloth. You are not Lúthien; you cannot follow him." I lifted my chin in defiance and swore I would stay by his side for all his life, no matter how long it was.
In the end, the Fëanorians did us a favor. They cornered us in the throne room. We took two of them down with us- I will never forget the look on Curufin's face as my dagger lodged in his neck- but there were three in the room. We never did get to find out exactly how mortal Dior was. We were equally dead when impaled on swords.
I had to let him go. It is very hard to hold onto a ghostly hand with equally ghostly fingers. I assure you that I tried very hard.
They refused to bring him back and let him choose.
"He died while counted among the Secondborn," Mandos declared and his sister wept with me. The rest of the Belain looked on uncomfortably.
"You will see him again after Dagor Dagorath," Tulkas said, raising placating hands in my direction. I think he truly meant it as comfort; the Belain see time very differently than we do.
"Do you wish to wait for him in the Halls?" Manwë asked. It was not a hard decision to make.
My children were waiting for me at the gates.
A/N: Attempt number two at posting this story. Thanks to fantasychica37 for helpful advice. Hopefully this is readable now...