Disclaimer: All canon characters, places and events belong to Tolkien. There are no OCs in this piece (apart from Amroth's mother and aunt who are mentioned only), but one person has a new name. I feel kind of awkward renaming one of Tolkien's characters but this person went East and I think that if he did re-join society it's reasonable that he'd change his name to hide his past.

This is a long drabble more than anything else. And it's a self-indulgence. This was originally in 3 parts; two main scenes and an epilogue. The two main scenes are both here now as I thought separating them made instalments too short. The longer scene break shows where one ends and the other begins.

Amroth still remembered when he'd appeared out of the grass. He'd been tracking them for days, he'd admitted, but meant them no harm. He has travelled East on the same road they were taking ten score years and more ago and knew these lands like the back of his hand. There were marshes seemingly with no paths across them, but he knew the way; rivers with hidden fords they would take years to find; forests where the trees were impish and eager to waylay you. But he could guide them all through.

After his speech, Amdír had laughed and said: "You are - or were - of the Eluwaith; I hear it in your voice. You would be most welcome to travel and dwell with us, wherever we end up, even if you knew as little of this land as we do. What is your name, meldir?"

"I lost it. Long ago."

"Then may I rename you?"

The eyes of the wanderer became wary. The wind picked up his dark hair and pulled it away, revealing the select silver strands in the layers below. Amdír regarded this strange looking Elf for a while, and all the while the other Elf's eyes became more and more uncertain. Amdír seemed about to ask something but then thought better of it. He smiled:

"We shall call you Finvenel."

A small bow, partly to hide the relief on the newly named Elf's face. "And what may I call you, lord?"

Amdír then named not only himself but the other Elves standing about, the future rulers and councillors of the woodland realms.

Finvenel had been ragged then; a sword, knife and flute his only possessions other than his tattered clothing. And he had been guarded, not wanting to antagonise his new kinsmen.

"Ten score years, you said," Amdír stated as they walked side by side.

"And more, herdir."

"You left Beleriand early. You were wise to do so."

"Truly?"

"You left before the world fell." Oropher qualified. He walked a pace or so behind Finvenel. "But why? There would have been no tell of what was to come in Doriath at that time."

"I… was looking for someone."

"Did you find them?"

"No."

Amroth had so many questions he wanted to ask the wanderer, but with each question from his father and Oropher Finvenel's anxiety grew. He might regret his decision and leave under the cover of night. His tales of the land ahead might have been lies, but Amdír and Oropher did not want to take the chance. So the questions quickly stopped, and Finvenel was true to his word. Soon enough they were walking down the far side of a mountain pass into lands none of them knew.

"The trees are gold," Amdír breathed, and then laughed with relief. "If there are Elves anywhere in these lands we'll find some there."

Amroth did the talking when they were indeed waylaid by a group of Silvans. Though they stared at him at first – the languages of the Galadhrim and the Laegrim had drifted apart over time – they soon got used to his strange words and he to theirs. The other Sindar understood something of what was said, for Amroth had taught them as much as he could on the long march, but it was still down to him that the Sindar not only settled but thrived among their Silvan cousins. Oropher, Thranduil and others who intended to travel on to the groups of Elves the Galadhrim said lived in the Greenwood remained until they spoke Silvan well enough to hold their own negotiations.

That was fifteen years ago.

In a few weeks' time the Sindar would be reunited, along with their Silvan lords and ladies, in the new city the Lórien Elves had built.

Amdír was newly crowned. Oropher was not king yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Amroth was at a loss of what to do. Preparations had already begun for the celebrations which would accompany the reunion. He was sure that he should be helping but all was going smoothly without his aid. He skipped around between the huts asking anyone and everyone engaged in work if he could help. Invariably he was greeted with a smile but some form of decline.

But then he stopped skipping and watched instead. He had seen Finvenel, sat leaning against a tree in front of a small fire. Few signs of his time in the wild remained. His hair was well kept, his clothes clean and whole. But he did not join in with he camaraderie the other Sindar now enjoyed with the Silvans. He preferred his own company, and guarded it. Which was why Amroth hung back and watched rather than bounding straight over as he was wont to do.

Finvenel was also hard at work. His knife was in one hand and a cylindrical piece of wood was in the other. This was hollowed out except for the far end. He was finishing a hole just down from this end. Then he put the cylinder to his lips and blew into it, considered for a moment, blew again and then made a mark a few inches up from the other end. He took something from the fire and pressed it to the wood. Slowly yet surely it burnt a hole through the cylinder wall. Then he put whatever it was back in the fire and began working out the position of the next hole.

Amroth hadn't realised he'd risen onto his toes, but now he approached with small footsteps, hands clasped behind his back. When still some distance away, he craned his neck again and rocked on his toes. Finvenel did not look up from his work. Amroth glanced over his shoulder before looking back.

"Are…" he began; "Are you making a flute?"

"I am."

Amroth rocked back on his heels and sucked his teeth, trying to hold back his excitement at this revelation. "Did you make your other one?"

"Indeed." A pause. "But this has taken far longer; it is a far more complicated design."

"It looks nothing like your old flute."

Finvenel sighed. "That would be because it isn't. You can't make this out of just wood but seeing as we once again have Noldorin neighbours I plan to ask them to fit the metal parts. To my satisfaction, of course."

"Of course." Another pause. "Do you play well, then?"

"Do I play well?" The incredulity was clear in Finvenel's voice as he looked up at Amroth for the first time. He raised the half-finished instrument: "Do I play well? I played for…" he paused. The light which had sparked in what Amroth could see of his eyes faded. He lowered the flute. "Yes; I play well. Or I used to, at least. It's hard to tell ones current aptitude when one's alone."

He bowed his head to concentrate on his work and his long fringe fell in front of his eyes again. Sea grey they were, mostly, but with hints of greens and blues. Amdír was forever looking after him muttering 'I've seen those eyes before' under his breath. Though now Amroth came to think of it he didn't mutter that any more. Maybe he'd worked it out. Something told Amroth not to ask.

"Is there something wrong with your old flute?" Amroth asked. "I've never seen or heard you play."

Finvenel laughed once. "My old flute's so old and cracked. It's out of tune and whistles where it's not supposed to. Only ten years old…" He added, sourly. £it is no matter. I have no desire to play. Merely to posses a flute which works..."

"I'm sure someone else has one."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sure you don't have to make a new one," Amroth said, his gaze taking in all the craftsmanship lavished on the instrument so far. "If you want to practice I'm sure someone could lend you theirs. Then you could play for us."

The next hole to be burnt hissed like a snake. "I will play when I wish."

"Then I hope you wish to soon," Amroth replied, grinning.

Finvenel looked up at the young prince, a sickly sweet smile on his lips. That was when he noticed the brooch.

It was an arch of stiff leather, holding a wooden pin in place.

"Who made that?" He asked.

Amroth followed his gaze and his grin became quieter, deeper. "My mother," he replied.

"She was skilled. I've… seen something like it before. A long time ago."

"She made a lot of them," Amroth said; "she enjoyed it. Everyone in our village wore them. My aunt tried to make them too but she didn't have the patience."

"Your aunt?"

"She taught me how to defend herself. She had little time for crafts other than weapon-making."

"Did you have any other family?" Finvenel asked, carefully.

Amroth shrugged. "I had an uncle, but he'd died long before I was born. I don't even know his name."

Finvenel's eyebrows raised on their own. "You never asked?"

Amroth chewed his lip: "My mother used to say Speak of the dead and you must speak of them all. Speak of them all and you have no time for the living. Love the living and leave the dead be."

"She sounds wise…"

Amroth nodded. "She was."

But he was still uncomfortable. Finvenel was watching him, as though comparing him to something. Then he nodded to himself and went back to flute.

Amroth watched for a while longer, but he was uneasy now so moved on.

oOo

"We should invite Celebrimbor to join our gathering," Amdír suggested in the days which followed. The Sindar and Silvans who were present agreed.

Finvenel was not there. He was finishing off the wooden part of his instrument with a deep brown varnish that made the wood sing.

"Whoever we send should take Finvenel's flute with them. That way it can be finished and he can play for us when the visitors come."

More nods of ascent.

"He'll never give it up though," Amroth said.

"I am his king. He will agree to send it to Hollin if I ask him."

But none of them were convinced.

Amdír backed down somewhat. "He'll never finish it unless we make him. He's put so much effort into it. Yes it is wrong to take matters into our own hands, but I do believe it would be worse to let it lie in some dusty corner never to be used."

So the flute was taken by stealth. On the eve of departure a few days later, Amdír distracted Finvenel whilst the elected messenger took the flute. At the end of the distraction Amdír told Finvenel, before he could find out for himself.

"You would never have sent it to be finished otherwise," Amdír said, calmly.

Finvenel just stood for a long moment, before forcing a smile. "Oh of course, sire; how considerate of you to chivvy along my affairs. How. Very. Kind. And if it gets damaged on the way it's only hours upon hours of love and care which will go up in smoke. Truly I am indebted to you."

"It is in safe hands, Finvenel," Amdír said.

"Really? But they aren't my hands. I would have taken it myself."

"We both know you wouldn't."

"Well it is comfort to know that someone else knows me better than I do. Truly, sir; I thank you for taking one of my prize possessions, for sending it far far away through hostile territory. Tell me, if you would ever like to send my boots away, or sword or knife, or anything of that nature, just tell me and I shall willingly oblige."

Amdír folded his arms. "Finvenel; you are by no means a master at this type of response. Please desist, and wait until your flute is returned to you before voicing your grudges against me. If indeed it comes back inferior then I shall listen to your grievance attentively."

There was nothing to say to Amdír's soft reply, so Finvenel walked far along the banks of the Anduin and sat there, staring into the water.

"He will come back," Amdír said when asked.

But as the days turned into weeks and the Elves of Eryn Galen drew nearer Amdír had to send for him. He was still sat there, watching the water, fingers making trails in its surface as it flowed ever onwards. Around him were letters, drawn in the fine silt at the water's edge. They were not like the letters the Silvan had seen before: those were rounded and fluid. These were angular and precise. He could just discern words. Groups of letters written at the same angle. But he knew not what they meant. Only that they fanned a long way out from Finvenel and that he wasn't writing any more.

"Amdír wishes you to be present to greet our guests."

Finvenel made no sign.

"Sir?"

Finvenel turned round and the Silvan took a step back.

"I shall burn it," he said. "That was always my intention. That was why I wouldn't finish it." He looked back to the water. "There is no way that I can make music now. It shall be useless."

"Sir-"

"Leave me. I do not care for your politics."

The Silvan shifted from foot to foot. "I am sorry but I cannot leave you here."

"No?" The tone was challenging. But after a long moment had passed and the Silvan hadn't left, Finvenel sighed: "No, of course you can't."

He rose, stiffly, and followed the Silvan back to civilisation.

oOo

Finvenel stood obediently on the jetty, but did not watch as the boat crossed the river. Did not look up more than was absolutely necessary as the passengers disembarked. Tried not to hear the Doriathrin spoken all around him.

I should have stayed where I was.

The soon-to-tbe Prince Thranduil was staring at him with wide, seemingly vacant eyes.

Let him, Finvenel thought: I have long endured far shaper stares than his.

He attended the feast only because he had to. He did not dance, nor sing nor play. Something unfortunate had befallen his flute. He was truly sorry. No, please do not bother yourself by finding another.

Late in the evening, when Amroth and Thranduil were looking for fry in the river, they saw Finvenel's dark form walk out along the jetty. Watched him sit down and bow his head.

They stayed away.

o0oOo0o

"My lord king!"

Celebrimbor looked up from the gem he was setting.

The messenger bowed low. "A messenger from across the mountains has come. He invites you to join the meeting of Lórien and Eryn Galen."

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow. "Truly! The Sindar are not known for sending invitations to others. Nor for responding to those sent to them."

"My lord, if you could meet with this messenger and tell him your reply. He wishes to return with the news as soon as possible; it is a long journey under the mountains.

The king inclined his head and made safe his tools and work before leaving his workshop.

There weren't many metalworkers up and running at the moment; there were many more still acquiring workshops and making arrangements with the Dwarves of Ered Lithui. As Celebrimbor walked through the main street, parting the crowds as a ship's prow parts the waves, he was pleased to see may Dwarves here handling objects some of the Elves had brought from Lindon, and deciding whether the wares were good enough for their raw materials. Despite the loud bartering at every turn, the atmosphere was one of friendly cooperation. And if the Elves in the East wished to co-operate as well… well that was fine news.

It was with a smile that Celebrimbor greeted the Sinda. The Sinda still seemed wary though, and Celebrimbor could not blame him. The Sinda bowed so low when he saw the Noldorin king that he almost lost his balance.

"You need not bow nearly so low!" Celebrimbor exclaimed. "Not to me. And certainly not as you've come, with the offer of friendship. You must be tired and in need of refreshment. My Elves can take you to fine food and a soft bed."

"You are very gracious, lord," came the tight yet genuine reply. "I shall rest here for a while, but I must return with an answer as soon as may be. My king asks that you come to Lothlórien and speak with him and his Elves and the lords of Eryn Galen. We all desire your friendship."

"As do I, my good Sinda."

The Sinda, who had only just straightened up, bowed low again.

"When will the Elves from Eryn Galen arrive?"

"In a few days' time, Lord."

"So I should be a late arrival no matter when you return," he said, kindly. "In that case take your time, though I have already decided upon my answer. I shall accept your kings' offer, and gladly."

A wave of relief washed across the Sinda's face. Followed quickly by a wave of tiredness.

"Make my friend here comfortable," Celebrimbor said, and turned to go. But as he did so the Sinda's hand tightened, almost guiltily, around the neck of the bag he wore. Celebrimbor turned back, intrigued: "There is something else?"

"It is nothing, lord," the Sinda said, the words running into each other as they rushed to be spoken.

"Let me be the judge of that."

The Sinda looked up at him apologetically before reaching into his bag and removing the wooden parts of a long flute. To call it 'beautiful' would be an injustice.

"May I?" Celebrimbor asked.

The Sinda hesitated before handing it over. "My lords… wondered if your Elves could fit the metal keys, valves… we have not the means to do so ourselves, and the Elf who would play it is currently without instrument."

It was made from the pale, grey wood of Lothlórien, but it had been varnished dark brown. The slight translucence of the varnish made it shine all the brighter. It was a tight grained wood and the flute's proportions were perfect. It would make a beautiful sound when finished: slightly lower than a typical flute, but all the more haunting.

"After the carpentry which has gone into this a fair number of my Elves would be too daunted to set metal to it," Celebrimbor said, still turning the smooth instrument over in his hands. "But there are many whom I would trust to match the skill. What better way of demonstrating our pending alliance than to make a flute together."

But not everything was smooth. His fingers had found a series of faint scratches at one end. He moved it so these were in the light and was surprised by what he saw.

He hadn't thought any Elf used cirth in this day and age. And these were old; older than the ones the Dwarves used now. He froze; two things coming together in his mind. The cirth themselves were small yet precise, the thin lines which made them clean and crisp. The letters themselves were small but engraved at just the right depth for the best shadow to illuminate them. Celebrimbor supposed not many Sindar in Lórien, or the Greenwood, could read cirth now. But he could.

Cuinnen ane, he read; Si no bannen.

"Actually," he said, "I shall oversee this myself."

He looked up at the Sinda, expecting him to share in his revelation, but the Sinda just looked dead on his feet. Celebrimbor waved at him: "Get thee rested!" The Sinda bowed once more before allowing himself to be led away. Celebrimbor went back to his workshop, tracing the cirth with a delicate hand.

I lived for her. Now she is gone.

oOo

It was a few weeks since the Greenwood Elves arrived in Lórien when the news came. The Noldor were on this side of the mountains, coming down through Mirromere and onto the plains before the wood.

"We should send people to meet them," Amdír said. "A small party. Unarmed."

"For the most part," Oropher said. When the others looked at him he added: "After all that has happened only fool would travel anywhere unarmed, no matter his purpose."

"Maybe we should send Thranduil and the prince, with a small retinue," a Silvan lord suggested. But all the Sindar shook their heads.

"It should be someone with presence-"

"Which rules us out anyway," Amroth said.

Finvenel had been silent and still up 'til then but now he stepped forward. "I volunteer."

He had presence; there was no doubt about that.

"Do you know what needs to be done?" The Silvan lord asked.

Finvenel looked as though he were biting his tongue very hard, so Amdír spoke for him: "I am sure Finvenel will greet them with all the respect they deserve."

"Besides," Finvenel added, his tone accusing; "I believe they have something of mine."

The group the Sindar which was finally sent out was not large, which was just as well for the group of Noldor they went to greet was not large either. Both parties were on foot, but Celebrimbor still looked as impressive as he appeared from between the tors as any on a horse would.

Finvenel stopped on the lower ground and bowed as Celebrimbor approached. To everyone's surprise, Celebrimbor made a shallow bow to Finvenel.

"It is an honour, lord," Finvenel said.

"The honour is mine," Celebrimbor replied. "What... do you call yourself?"

"Finvenel, lord."

"Finvenel," Celebrimbor repeated as he studied the Sinda's face: his sea eyes, his night sky hair streaked with stars. "As for your name: it is a fine name, but replacements never sound quite as fitting as the original. I have long hoped to meet you again… "

Fear crossed the Sinda's face. "You... remember... but-"

"Yours is a face that is hard to forget," Celebrimbor said, kindly.

Finvenel's hand clasped his chest. Panic was evident in his eyes.

"Calm yourself," the Noldo said, raising a placating hand as he spoke. "I too believe the past should be left behind, unless we can learn something. And if so it is the how that is important, not the who and the where."

"My lord?"

"Your name in Finvenel. Whatever names you have carried before are no longer you. As my forefathers are not me. But now! Before you lead me into this most enchanting of forests, I have a thing for you."

One of his entourage stepped up and produced the flute from his bag. He handed it to his king who in turn handed it to Finvenel.

"I can assure you it has been treated with the utmost care."

The metal parts shone against the dark wood. They were made of silver, and engraved with intricate designs. They moved without hindrance and were ideally shaped. Finvenel made a noise of astonishment.

"I am sorry that I ever doubted the skill of your people," he said.

Celebrimbor's eyes sparkled. "I put a little more into the metal than the silver itself. Music made on this will resonate in your surroundings, lift spirits and transport your audience to worlds now far off."

"My lord, you did this?"

Celebrimbor nodded. "With some help on the design, I must say. But I thought," he said, lowering his voice so only Finvenel could distinguish the words, "you wouldn't want people finding the inscription."

Finvenel's cheeks flushed and Celebrimbor laughed. It was a warm sound: "My dear Finvenel; when Dwarves are your main suppliers and customers you learn the alphabet they use."

"Indeed." Clutching the flute, he bowed low; "Thank you from the bottom of my heart. How may I repay you?"

"Is that not obvious?" Celebrimbor asked. "Play the flute which we have completed for you and my Elves and I shall count our labours paid for."

"But…" Finvenel faltered, "this flute was never meant to be played. I can't play. Not now. Not since…"

"You are a romantic fool," Celebrimbor said, kindly. "Do not deprive the whole world of your music because of one person."

"Sir-"

"I order you to play."

Finvenel lifted the mouthpiece to his lips, looking around at those gathered with some trepidation. How long had it been since he's plaid for an audience? Had his skill left him? Was this marvel of an instrument in the hands of a mere has-been?

But then he began. His fingers knew what to do as the danced around the instrument. Circular breathing, which had taken him so long to master, came as easily as breathing normally. The sound the flute produced filled the plain, rolled outwards to the woods on one side and the mountains on the other. It filled the heads and hearts of all who listened as well as the flautist. The intensity made them hold their breaths. But it was a sad sound; even as it spoke of the beauty of what had been there was the End somewhere deep down in the melody. As it rose higher and higher something sank lower and lower. The harmony of life and death, joy and grief, love and loss flowed not just from the player but from the instrument itself. They all lost track of time: the Noldor, the Silvans and Finvenel. All there was was the music. No one likened it to the music of the Valar, but perhaps this was the last act of the music of the Elves.

In Lórien, where people had begun wondering when the Noldor would arrive, the drifting music answered their question. Its distance here made it even more striking.

But then it was over. Finvenel had chosen a short melody. The silence that followed was not one of rapture, or of awe; it was one of contentment after hearing a master at work.

Celebrimbor let out the breath he'd been holding. "I think that was as good an introduction as anyone could wish to have," he said. "And now let us enter the woods. I trust that the main settlement it in the middle rather than the edge? In which case we still have some way to go, and they will surely be waiting for us now."

That feast he did play. The tune was slow and sad. It sat heavy on the shoulders of all who heard. And everyone heard. But they found it beautiful, addictive, and Finvenel's heart felt that bit lighter as he played. And after he had played conversation turned to things Finvenel would rather not hear. Celebimbor was offering to make a crown for the soon-to-be crowned Oropher. It would be wreath-like in form, but with electrum stems, white quartz leaves and garnet berries.

Someone else's crown was made of white crystal, garnets and electrum…

So that evening he excused himself and returned to the jetty. But this time he sang a lament. It carried down the river to mingle with the roar of Rauros. And though it was sad, there was a ring of hope in it too.

A/N: This is probably AU, but I think it could have happened.

Finvenel is indeed Daeron. It is said that he wandered in the east, singing laments by bodies of water. So I wondered if he was still around when the rest of the Sindar went East, and I wondered what he thought of them if he did indeed see them. I hope this isn't too AU, but if it is then this is part of my... stranger headcanon.