Summery: Time does not tarry ever, but it's flow is not in all things and places alike. In Valinor, the peace of the gods reigns over cities of everlasting light. Arda, beautiful and violent world of men, has seen a thousand kingdoms rise and fall. But there are those who do not change as the centuries slip by. These are the forsaken.
Warnings: Slash. MxM relationships. If this offends you, please go elsewhere. Also, this will not be entirely true to canon. That's why it's fanfiction. If this offends you, please go elsewhere. This will be a crossover with Lord of the Rings.
Disclaimer: I do not own The Silmarillion or Lord of the Rings. I do not get money for writing this.
Immortal Requiem
Chapter One
Death dark waters lapped hungrily at the crumbling earth. He longed to sink forever beneath them. Why continue to breathe when every breath was agony? But he could not bring himself to die. Luthien waited not beyond the circles of the world. What mercy was there in still being alone? Valinor was nothing without her. Better to stay here, where earth and sky shared his sorrow. The threatened rain began to fall; silver shards of broken dreams. A replacement for the tears he could not cry.
Daeron of Doriath. So they had called him once. He remembered the way his people had looked at him, and the respect in their eyes. Sometimes, he almost missed it. But even were he to leave here now, he would never feel it again. There was nothing left to respect. He should have faded. There was naught keeping him here.
He had felt the passing of the endless years, and he knew: all that he had known was changed and gone. It whispered in the wind, in the leaves of the stunted trees that leaned sad and lonely over the grey, wind-tossed lake. The knowledge hung in the shadow that crept, silent and watchful, along the boundaries of the sky. With every setting of the sun, it grew closer. Soon, he knew, it would swallow him, but he could not bring himself to care.
Long fingers wrapped around the smooth wood of his flute. It was badly worn.
'The instrument reflects its maker.'
A bitter smile twisted his proud mouth, lips swollen with playing. Playing, always playing, as if the songs could bring her back. They could bring only the memories, bitter as gall, and still beautiful as the silver shimmer of Tinuviel's eyes. So achingly beautiful.
He had played such beauty once, before Beren came. Then he had played only sorrow. 'Music for heart's ache', as Luthien had begged him so long ago. Even in her agony, his name on her lips had been a miracle. Yet he had more knowledge than she now of music for light gone dark and laughter dead. There was no light in this place, under the lowering sky. Laughter could not come here. His hope was gone and nevermore would his flute coax feet to dance.
Feet. Tramping, heavy footsteps that should not have been there. None knew this lake. Daeron stood on legs that almost refused to support his weight. He turned, and came face to face with an Orc.
The creature seemed surprised. Daeron did not think to take advantage of this state. He just stood, waiting, maybe, for death. At least this would be swifter than drowning. There was no use in resisting. There was no use in much of anything anymore. Why continue to live, when every breath was agony?
Ah, to sleep without dreams. Perhaps in the halls the Valar would take pity upon him. He would petition Lorien for everlasting sleep. Surely they would not mind such a request. The creature drew its sword with a ringing hiss of steel on leather. Daeron closed his eyes. And so he did not see the Orc turn its sword to slam the hilt into his neck before he dropped lifeless to the earth.