Disclaimer: The characters, places, things and the original conception of this story belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I am only borrowing them for my own enjoyment and make no profit from this.
A Broken Melody
It has been so very long since Lúthien has looked upon the great pillared halls of Menegroth. One would think that after living here for hundreds of years, a short absence would be of little account. Yet to travel to Angband and back is seemingly a longer journey than to travel to the outer circles of Eä.
She tries not to remember that now. She is home, and though her rest will be short, seeing as the Silmaril is still in the jaws of the wolf, it will be joyous. For Beren's hand is well nigh healed now, and her father's heart is healed also. And she can rest content, knowing that all strife is now ended, and she can at last love freely.
Seeing the many smiling faces around her, she can imagine that all is as it once was. The elves of Menegroth smile, tears of joy pouring down their faces, washing away their long sorrow. Yet none is more filled with joy than her father. Indeed, she doubts if she has ever seen him so happy. Every time he looks upon his daughter, he embraces her, half is disbelief that she is truly there.
Now, after many such embraces with friends and family she has been parted from, she is able to sit alone, and contemplate to herself, simply breathing in the moment. But then suddenly she feels saddened, as though someone is missing from the crowd before her. She looks around at the many faces, and all are familiar, the same as they were when last she saw them. Yet there is one face she cannot find. A face she remembers from the very first days of childhood. She can see her mother and father clearly, so she knows it is not them. She has to restrain herself from panicking, unable to understand why this sudden loss has come upon her.
The minstrels begin their song. Music. A pipe.
"Daeron!" She is surprised to find she spoke aloud, but with a quick glance around it is clear that no one heard. She has to hold back tears. She mustn't fret yet. It is highly probable that he is simply somewhere else. She tries to resume her former frame of mind, but is simply unable to. No matter how much she tries to focus on the joy of the evening, her thoughts return to Daeron and she has to fight back unbidden tears that she cannot even comprehend.
"Lúthien!" The beautiful child peers out from behind a large tree, and smiles to herself as the minstrel wanders on, calling her name. As soon as she deems him to be far enough away, she leaps out from hiding, and grabs him from behind, laughing in delight.
He turns around and looks down on her, his eyes twinkling with suppressed laughter, but his face worried. "Lúthien," he begins.
"Daeron," she answers, and then follows with the plea: "Will you carry me?"
Convinced that any attempt to teach this child will fail, he succumbs to her wish, and lifts her into his arms. She begins playing with his dark hair, practicing braids in it. Daeron wonders if he should stop her, but decides he can always undo it later. After a moment, she speaks again.
"Daeron, will you teach me to play a pipe like you?"
"Perhaps someday." He replies. "But you hardly need to learn an instrument, for your voice makes purer notes than any instrument I have ever heard."
She stares at him in disbelief. "Do you really think so?"
"With a voice like yours at such a young age, I am certain you will become great indeed by the time you are grown."
"Then will you play music for me to sing to?" She asks.
And his reply is a simple smile.
Unable to contain her anxiety any longer, Lúthien resolves to ask her father where the minstrel is. He is probably wandering the woods or something of the like, but she must make certain. Thingol's smile fades when he sees the grave expression on his daughter's face.
"Lúthien," he says as he approaches her. "What has grieved you?"
"Father," she begins, "I cannot help but notice someone is not here." She looks around, searching for the words to say. "The minstrels, they no longer play as they once did. I do not mean to say that the music is not beautiful, for it is indeed. Only, it lacks…"
Thingol looks down on her with worry and pity in his eyes. He finishes her sentence: "It lacks Daeron."
Lúthien feels all her fears come down upon her like a torrent of heavy rain, dark clouds covering the joyful faces around her. "No, father! Say not that he is gone?"
When Thingol does not reply, she knows the answer can only be that it is true. Melian, from across the room, sees her daughter's distress as she clings to the cloak of Thingol. She walks over, and she needs no explanation to know what has happened. She gently takes Lúthien's hand and pulls her away from her father.
"My daughter, come with me. There is much that I must tell you." Lúthien follows without a word, trying to at least appear untroubled until they reach a room of privacy. To Lúthien's surprise, she is led to the Daeron's chamber. There is still a small desk in the corner, several papers spread across its surface and a feather pen resting in the ink above it. The dark blue blankets are spread neatly over the bed, moon light shining down upon the almost iridescent material.
Daeron is bent over a scroll, scribbling on it with a feather pen. He does not even notice when Lúthien comes up behind him. She is grown now, only just past her majority. "Daeron," she says softly, not wishing to disturb him. But at the sound of her voice he stops everything and turns right away, looking straight into her eyes. For a moment he doesn't speak, until her questioning stare reminds him to do so.
"Lúthien," he had not meant to say the name with such surprise and delight, but she seems to take no notice. "I did not know I would be seeing you today."
"Why would you think that? It's your begetting day, and I made you gift." She holds up the folded piece of cloth she was holding, but once again Daeron, bard though he is, simply stares in disbelief.
"I …" He stammers, but still Lúthien only smiles, anticipating his joy at receiving her gift. "I did not know you would give me anything. You should not, I mean to say…"
Lúthien laughs then, and embraces her friend, unaware of how afraid he is to return the gesture. "Here." She places the gift in his hand. "It is a blanket. My mother helped me to make it. I did now know which color you would like, so I chose blue."
The blanket looked the same as the day she had given it to him. That is, except for the thin layer of dust that covered it. He was gone then. Lúthien was not even sure that she wanted to ask where. Something told her that the answer was not one she wanted to hear, though she could not have possibly guessed what it was. Melian took a piece of paper from his desk and held it up for her daughter to see. "Here," she said, and placed it in Lúthien's hands.
Across the top in beautiful black script Lúthien saw her name. Her feet grew unsteady beneath her, and she had to sit on the bed to finish reading. A poem unlike any she had ever read, laden with grief and sorrow. Daeron often used to tell her that he was in truth no great bard or minstrel; that his talent deserved none of the praise it received. And though she had always known he was wrong, that he was brilliant despite what he thought, she could say now that he was the greatest minstrel she had ever heard tell of. Indeed, it was possible that he was the greatest of all the Eldar, Sinda though he was. But then she began to cry, for at last the realisation of what she had read dawned on her. He loved her, and she had not even known. She remembered Beren, who would be looking for her even now, and remembered the times she had thought him dead, how her very soul had felt compressed and heavy. That was why, she realised in horror that this poem meant so much to her.
"Mother, where is he?"
Melian sat down beside her daughter, and placed a hand over hers. "We do not know. We searched for many days, but soon it was clear that all joy was stilled in Doriath. His fate has led him somewhere that even I cannot see. Perhaps to the Halls of Awaiting, but I think not. Not yet."
"I wish I could have seen him once more." Lúthien said, before her tears began to flow freely at last. She hardly heard the words of Melian as she drained her soul of sorrow and regret.
"You may yet, my daughter, you may yet."
Her father had the Silmaril at last, but the price was far too high. Beren was dead. Lúthien had prayed that Mandos hold him until she came to join him, but she could not be sure that her prayer would be granted. It was no matter. She would forsake life nonetheless. There could be no joy found in living in constant sorrow. Therefore she left one night is stealth, just as she had done before. Yet now she could not even hope to return. She stole into the thick and tangled trees of Doriath, and none hindered her going, if they even saw her. She began to lose count of time, wandering this way and that, tears streaming down her cheeks like constant rain that comes down day after day, a dark veil over the sun. And though she thought of Beren often, she also found her thoughts return time and again to Daeron. Bitterly, she remembered when he had told her father of Beren. She had not been able to understand such treachery from such a dear friend at the time, but now at last she did.
Lúthien can hear sweet melodies floating up from the roots of the tree. She recognises that flute playing well enough, for it is unlike any she has ever heard. She desperately wants someone to speak with, but she cannot bring herself to forgive Daeron. It is because of him that she is here. But he comes back every day, and often he cries out for her to forgive him, apologising countless times. At last, lonely and unable not to pity her friend, she has the guards let him up.
She sees that he was crying as soon as he steps inside, and the sight moves her to tears also. She wants to embrace him, just as she has done in childhood, but there is a distance between them now that keeps her from it. He hurriedly wipes his eyes. "Lúthien, please forgive me. I thought only of you own safety. I could never let harm come to you. Lúthien, I love you." He speaks in a rushed manner, and his last words make him start. Yet Lúthien understands not what he means.
"I know, Daeron. You are the dearest friend I have ever had."
With that, she holds his hand in the same childlike manner she has always done. Daeron knows even then that she will find Beren; that she will escape at all costs. Yet this time he did not have the heart to speak of it to anyone.
At last Lúthien knew she must stop. The world grew dark and grey around her, even where the sun was shining. All that had once seemed beautiful was dull, weathered with age. She sat down, cradled in the roots of a knarled tree, and closed her eyes.
Yet at once she heard a voice, weak and trembling, singing a familiar tune. She thought at first that it was a trick of her mind, but when she opened her eyes again there was no doubt that it was indeed real. Looking around, she noticed a figure, crouched on the ground nearby, the hood of his grey cloak hiding his face in shadow. Yet she did not need to see him to know who it was. At once she stood and with new found energy walked towards him. He was singing quietly towards the ground, his flute neglected on the grass beside him. She could see his face now, pale and thin, his eyes like hollow, dark holes. She knelt down before him and lifted both his hands in hers, but his bony fingers made no attempt to even return the grasp.
The voice she had known to be so melodious was now broken, barely more than a whisper. "Lúthien?" He looked at her with question.
"Yes, I am here. And I live still, if but for a little while."
He simply nodded, and she could not tell what he thought. "Go back to Menegroth. If you must die, at least die in sight of those who love you." Lúthien recalled a line like to that very one from the poem she had read before. "Do not tell them that you found me." She wanted to question his choice, but decided rather to leave him be, and to grant his wish. "Go to Beren. He loved you -" he lifted a hand to touch her face, and the simple gesture seemed to take all his strength. "- more than I ever could."
With that, his eyes closed, and he fell back against the tree. His hands went cold in Lúthien's grasp almost instantly, and she felt his spirit float over her. She pulled the grey cloak over the lifeless body, and laid the neglected flute in the palm of his hand. She thought she heard the instrument playing in the trees above her, but she could not be sure. She retraced her steps back to Menegroth, there to look upon those whom she loved one last time before she finally left Middle-earth, to be reunited with he whom she loved most before he too passed forever from the world.