It was a still, clear, midsummer night. Daeron was perched in a tree, playing his flute. The wood of the flute was warm beneath Daeron's fingers, and the air he breathed was heavy with the scent of niphredil. In the clearing below him, Lúthien was dancing.
Lúthien lept and twirled through the evening air, light and ethereal. It was as though the world had no hold on her; she merely returned to the ground when she thought it fitting. What a blessing it was to have such a creature listen to his music Daeron thought, watching the way her skirts flowed over her long legs. She was an image of perfection in an otherwise imperfect world.
He loved her, it was well known. He did not see any need to keep that a secret; how could anyone see her and not love her? She did not feel the same for him of course. Daeron knew she was too far above this world for anything as terrestrial and physical as love. The perfect maiden was perfectly chaste, so he must be the same. Such was the cost of loving her. Others might settle for lesser beings, but not he. No, he was an artist, doomed to pursue unattainable perfection.
But at times like these, he felt as though he knew her as well as any could. He played in time to her dancing, and she danced in time to his music, until they could not be sure who was leading the other. They carried on that way as the sky faded from orange to black, and the stars were kindled above them, playing and dancing together as though they were of one mind. And when they heard the noise of some strange creature in the distance, they fled as one. But when they returned to the halls of Menegroth, they were separate again, and Daeron returned to his home alone.
That had been the pace of his life since before the first sunrise. It wasn't all he wanted, but it was familiar and routine. To him, it was enough.
Until one spring, he could not find her in the woods.