Oh well. Finally I dared it. Working something out inspired by the holiest of the holiest.

I feel sacrilegious..... oh geez.....SORRY!

 Dunno what got into me, but I always adored that particular Noldo.  Keep Legolas, but do not touch my Felagund.

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters appearing in this story are ©J.R.R. Tolkien, all rights reserved. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. No profit is being made by the author for writing this story. No infringement upon nor challenge to the rights of the copyright holders is intended; nor should any be inferred.

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I hear its laughter in my mind long before I see it. Mocking, derisive.

 Gorthaur.

Well, such is the way of the Enemy.

I feel more sorry for the mortal sitting beside me, the man for the sake of whom I threw down my crown in Nargothrond.

I smell the fear on him, his mortal body trying to get through to him, though I suspect he does not even sense it himself.

 I can almost hear it, clearly : Run, Beren, run away.

But no. He hears it not, feels naught but his love for Luthien.

For Luthien, he took this risk. For the Tínuvíel of Elwë did he come here.

I feel sorry because I know that it is him it will come for.

 And it will spare me, for the Enemy desires the minds of the Eldar. Ever did he want them, to twist and turn and wreak apart.

 It will begin with Beren.

 No, do not believe what they say. Do not believe that the children of Elbereth never feel the pain of doubt.

 We do. Yes, we do.

 Once, back in Valinor, in the golden light and joy of Eldamar, I once spoke to a maia who put it very well :

Even the wise cannot see all ends.

And the Atani will conjure their own destiny. What then, do I know of their song, sitting here beside one?

 A Silmaril, Elwë. Oh, but then you earned it yourself. You took the curse upon you, and it will be the end of Doriath. And what of Melian, what shall become of her when you, eventually, shall go to the halls of Mandos? Do you, indeed, have to make it happen sooner than necessary?

 You are a fool, Singollo. Such is the judgement of this fool, sitting here in the bowel of a tower he once himself has built. Oh sweet irony!

 Amarië...

 This is love, my beloved wife. This is why the Atani will prevail, this is what make the Enemy hate them so. Shortlived, frail, and yet they persist in bidding him resistance.

 Even unto loving what they cannot have, and having it anyway.

 They lack humility. Maybe that is why I love them. Are we Noldorin any better?

 You used to smile at me, Amarië, and in your eyes I felt like an Atani, though of course at that distant time I did not know of these our younger brethren.

 And what did I give the kin of Ingwë for her smile?

 I left her to revenge the theft of the very same jewels that this man beside me pursues now.

 I did not have to. I already had you, I did not need to pay anything, you gave it to me freely.

 But I left.

 Oh but I wish you could have seen Middleearth as I have seen it. I wish you could have met the Atani, as I met them one evening, dancing and singing within the forests.

 They are like children, my love, wild and carefree and their minds are so open.

 Like a stonewall waiting for the chisel to cut whatever patterns in its surface, be it beautiful forms or twisted features.

 The Naugrim called me Felek-Undu, the Cave-hewer.

 Is this then your lesson Great One?

 Its eyes are aglow now. It is here.

 And Luthien will weep and her beauty will fade, when she learns of this. And she will dance no more.

What destiny would the two of them carve out in this world? How would they bear their separation, when, in the end, it must come?

 I do not know and neither do I care, if their happiness is borrowed. It is not less real.

Not less real than what I threw away in my youth, pursuing something I do no longer find important.

 Will you take him from her now, Gorthaur? Do you really think I will let you do that?

 But you cannot have him. Oh no.

 For this world, this imperfect, utterly lovable place of sadness belongs to him and his kin, not you. Your master will never have it.

And it is not mine either, and I am so tired, so very tired indeed.

 You snarl at me?

 Do you think then, that I cannot match your wrath? Do you think then that you black, envious blood shall never be spilt?

 Ah, but there it comes, my dear abomination, and it warms my limbs and my teeth, and it tastes of your hatred.

 I do not hate anymore. Go tell your master I do not care about him anymore, and that I do not care for the jewels of Feanör.

 Tell him if you think you can escape me....

 Amarië.

 Amarië.

 Amarië.

 Time to go home now.