Author's note : I so hate the beginning of this. The ending is much better,
I think. I least I hope it is. I hate mushy stuff, and now it seems very
likely that this chapter has turned into the mushiest thing I've ever
written … Die, fic of mine … ::stabs computer screen::
Remember the gift of the elven minstrels, to be able to make what they sing about appear in actual real life, and that stuff about magic songs and that ? They are quite reluctant to do that, though, and usually put a "veil" on their voice, lest they would enchant everyone within earshot … And Lùthien and Daeron are both very powerful elven singers, Lùthien because of her Maia ancestry, and Daeron simply because of talent.
I'm actually quite sure Lùthien and Daeron were very good friends. If it wasn't the case, then why did Lùthien ask for his help when escaping ?
In this part, as will be in the next one, the PoV switches between narrator and Daeron, but still in the third person anyway, so. And I'm really sorry for their speech, I just couldn't make it sound ancient-like. Forgive me, as English's not my first language … And I like it better that way. I beg thy pardon.
And so the tune goes on …
By Le Chat Noir
He had been sitting there for a long time, staring at the ground and softly humming to himself, when she waltzed into the clearing, light-footed as always and shining as always, beaming to the warm summer breeze, and it playing with her hair. As usual, his heart startled abruptly in his chest, but bitterly, and he did not dare raise his eyes, for an anxious frown had cast a cloud over them. It had been four weeks she hadn't come to their daily meetings, after the celebration at Menegroth when she had sung his song to Elbereth and the stars her hand had sown. And each day in the forest he had sworn to himself not to come to wait the next day, but each morrow had he found himself sitting there again, feigning indifference but utterly and forever failing to gather again the little pieces of his soul that fled everyday from him.
"Hail, Daeron."
Today she stood there in front of him, laughing, forgetful, more radiant than he had ever seen her.
~'Silver no more, but the richest of gold.'~
"If my lady permits it, I would like to ask a question." He had stood, and bowed low, and she just smiled under his questioning stare. Behind his back he hid the some ten sheets of paper on which he had neatly, or so it seemed to him, laid down his music to her, Lùthien, daughter to Melian. The masterpiece of his life, this time, nearest to perfection than anything he had ever written, and he knew that if only he was allowed to give his voice the free lance, than it would be the one to achieve what he had wanted always. But that would never happen, not under the law of Thingol, not within the frontiers of Doriath.
"Well certainly, my friend." Seeming unable to stay still for more than mere moments, she took some steps around the meadow, dancing for herself.
It seemed that the merrier she was, the more shadows heaped upon his heart, and the joy and gaiety in her voice only darkened, without apparent reason, the world to his eyes.
"How come that today my lady looks more beautiful than the sun itself in the sky of August ?" And again, that musical, silvery, clear voice, the voice he hated because of its perfection, its lack of human tones, or rather, of course, not human, but simply so un-lifelike he could not make the emotions of a normal spirit pass through it, lest he should sing, and then only the glory of the stars and past heroes and lost epics. The elf maiden simply laughed the compliment away, and stood staring at him for a time, as if debating something in her head she wanted to smile about. Daeron stood there, maintaining his face as expressionless as he could, fighting the loosing battle of restraining himself from suddenly jumping over to her, and engage in one of those elflings' fighting game they used to have when they were younger … much younger.
"Daeron, you know you've been one of the first I've ever considered as a friend. One could even say that you are my best, if not only real friend."
It was no good. No good at all. He didn't know why, but her voice, for the first time, brought dread to him.
"I guess I can tell you."
And each of her smile was a stab in his heart, as if he knew what was coming. Of course he knew. Too often had he seen that look in a girl's eyes, that tone in their voice, that spring in their step, not to see, not to have seen at the very first look …
"I'm in love, Daeron, you know what ?"And of pure happiness her gaze shone, as she twirled, singing, around the meadow, feeling the sweet taste of the words on her lips.
"He bears name Beren, son of Barahir."
A bitter, bitter taste came into his mouth, and he wanted to spit. Above all, it had to be a Man ? Few and faint rumours of Barahir's twelve compagnions' feats and fall had reached the edge of Melian's Ring, and even lesser had crossed it to reach the ears of the Grey-elves. The general opinion among Thingol's people, following the lead of their King, was that the Edain, Second-Borns, were creatures of rank little above the Orcs. The Elves of Doriath hadn't forgotten the many treasons of the Mortals, spies and soldiers for Morgoth. He had the hardest time to prevent a scornful laugh from escaping his throat, and for once thanked his self-control and mastery of acting. He even managed to force a sincere-looking smile upon his face. But, Lùthien's eyes, clouded by her bliss, saw nothing but the true joy of a friend. He said nothing, as if waiting for more to come. However he needed hear no more.
~'I wish my lady good luck, in front of her father.'~
"I thought, maybe, you know …" She hesitated. It was the first time he had ever heard her to.
~'Yes ?'~
"You're in favour by my Father, and maybe you could speak for him …" A quick laugh. "You know the dispositions of Menegroth well enough."
"If your voice can do nothing, my lady, to the sentence of Thingol, than my say will be of but wretched good."
The answer had come swiftly, crossing the threshold of his lips almost without him ordering it to, and he thought it good, for if he had managed to hold it back, it would have had to be another she would had heard, and for nothing in the world … She turned away, feebly smiling, but at the moment his mind was to confused and chaotic to regret his words. An uncomfortable silence settled.
At that moment, a hoarse voice called, "Tinùviel !" , far away, from somewhere among the trees, as that of one who had not spoken for long time, and had forgotten to. Once again, Daeron felt a pang. How could such a cracked, dry voice dare speak a tongue so noble and pure ? Utter that name of beauty and magic ? But not long did he dwell in his thoughts, for in the blink of an eye with a last flash of laughter, Luthien daughter of Thingol had plunged into the forest, disappearing behind the bushes.
For a moment he stayed still, thunderstruck, trying to get his head to function normally again. Then, with heart still clouded by a shadow of doubt, he went after her, following as silently as he could, and at a safe distance, for he knew, anyway, that if he was the one who had taught her her art of music and dancing, her vigilance and sharp hearing had been trained by Mablung, first Captain of the King, himself.
Stop. Do not make a noise. Not a sound. Hold your breath. Stay still.
They were too infatuated in looking at one another. Walking round the clearing, talking. The world was no more to them. No more than the sanctuary of their eternal love.
Observe. Listen. Can not blind your eyes. Can not deafen your ears.
Eyes locked. Stop pacing. A shy kiss.
See. Hear. Bear. Turn away.
A slight rustle in the leaves they didn't hear, too slight to be that of a rabbit, too harsh to be that of an elf. It was the sign that the royal minstrel had left the outskirts of the clearing, stumbling on the roots of Neldoreth, blinded by the light, blinking his tears away, with a lot less control of his body and acts as he usually had.
As he ran towards Menegroth that afternoon, the doom of Doriath came one thundering step nearer.
He didn't stop running when he reached the border of the forest, but then fell into a walk, the fastest one he could muster without attracting the attention of all the inhabitants of the Hidden City. Running on foot in Menegroth wasn't an everyday sight. Most elves with ranks high enough to be assigned urgent tasks or messages had horses.
No one stopped him at the door of the palace. The guards knew him well, and it was anyway the place he officially belonged in. His steps resounded in the corridors, as he strode past the tall windows carved out from the walls of stone. The soldiers in front of the ebony door to the Great Hall where Thingol and Melian sat were usually a bit more of a challenge to get pass when the King was in High Council, as he was now, but the bard's despair and wrath had grown to be so great that he couldn't care less. They didn't stop him.
Elwë Singollo, King of the Teleri of Middle-Earth, First-Born among the First-Borns, sat on his throne, with his wife, Queen Melian the Maia, to his right. In front of him, facing each other, stood the two rows of his best counsellors and most trusted men, chosen among the wisest and most skilful of the Elves of Doriath, assembling some of the greatest who ever lived to see the plains of Beleriand. There were Mablung, his First Captain, Beleg Cuthàlion, come from the northern frontiers of the Kingdom, Saeros, a Nandor, and many more whose sole name could strike fear in the heart of any Orc, and respect to any Elf.
The Council had been called on urgency, for an important band of Orcs, led by an unknown shadow and rallying around it, had crossed the labyrinths of the Ring, and many of Beleg's men had fallen during the assault, before the rest of them had managed to retreat.
"Usually Orcs wouldn't even have been considered a minor problem. However that day it was different. Alas for my comrades. There was something else, something we couldn't identify. The shadow …"
The door flew open, interrupting his speech, and everyone turned their gaze to the newcomer, and whispers erupted all around the hall. Only Melian stayed still and silent. Thingol stood from his seat, eyes flaring with anger, and Saeros spoke.
"Who dares disturb the Council of my King ?"
"Daeron, minstrel of Thingol." Announced the guard at the door. And as all followed him of their eyes, the figure clothed in shades of grey and white advanced in between them, and great turmoil of emotions could be read on his face. Arrived at the foot of the stairs to the throne, he bent knee in front of his King.
"News, my Lord."
Author's note : OMG, I can't believe I'm actually finished with this chapter. You know the phenomenon, when at the beginning the story just comes flowing out of your head, and then it gets harder and harder ? It's a kind of writer's block, I guess. I was going to add some stuff to this chapter, but will just have to include it in another one. I'm dead right now. Need sleep. The next chapter might either be the continuation of the story, either a scene from the youth of Daeron and Lùthien. I don't know which to put first. You guys think ?
Remember the gift of the elven minstrels, to be able to make what they sing about appear in actual real life, and that stuff about magic songs and that ? They are quite reluctant to do that, though, and usually put a "veil" on their voice, lest they would enchant everyone within earshot … And Lùthien and Daeron are both very powerful elven singers, Lùthien because of her Maia ancestry, and Daeron simply because of talent.
I'm actually quite sure Lùthien and Daeron were very good friends. If it wasn't the case, then why did Lùthien ask for his help when escaping ?
In this part, as will be in the next one, the PoV switches between narrator and Daeron, but still in the third person anyway, so. And I'm really sorry for their speech, I just couldn't make it sound ancient-like. Forgive me, as English's not my first language … And I like it better that way. I beg thy pardon.
And so the tune goes on …
By Le Chat Noir
He had been sitting there for a long time, staring at the ground and softly humming to himself, when she waltzed into the clearing, light-footed as always and shining as always, beaming to the warm summer breeze, and it playing with her hair. As usual, his heart startled abruptly in his chest, but bitterly, and he did not dare raise his eyes, for an anxious frown had cast a cloud over them. It had been four weeks she hadn't come to their daily meetings, after the celebration at Menegroth when she had sung his song to Elbereth and the stars her hand had sown. And each day in the forest he had sworn to himself not to come to wait the next day, but each morrow had he found himself sitting there again, feigning indifference but utterly and forever failing to gather again the little pieces of his soul that fled everyday from him.
"Hail, Daeron."
Today she stood there in front of him, laughing, forgetful, more radiant than he had ever seen her.
~'Silver no more, but the richest of gold.'~
"If my lady permits it, I would like to ask a question." He had stood, and bowed low, and she just smiled under his questioning stare. Behind his back he hid the some ten sheets of paper on which he had neatly, or so it seemed to him, laid down his music to her, Lùthien, daughter to Melian. The masterpiece of his life, this time, nearest to perfection than anything he had ever written, and he knew that if only he was allowed to give his voice the free lance, than it would be the one to achieve what he had wanted always. But that would never happen, not under the law of Thingol, not within the frontiers of Doriath.
"Well certainly, my friend." Seeming unable to stay still for more than mere moments, she took some steps around the meadow, dancing for herself.
It seemed that the merrier she was, the more shadows heaped upon his heart, and the joy and gaiety in her voice only darkened, without apparent reason, the world to his eyes.
"How come that today my lady looks more beautiful than the sun itself in the sky of August ?" And again, that musical, silvery, clear voice, the voice he hated because of its perfection, its lack of human tones, or rather, of course, not human, but simply so un-lifelike he could not make the emotions of a normal spirit pass through it, lest he should sing, and then only the glory of the stars and past heroes and lost epics. The elf maiden simply laughed the compliment away, and stood staring at him for a time, as if debating something in her head she wanted to smile about. Daeron stood there, maintaining his face as expressionless as he could, fighting the loosing battle of restraining himself from suddenly jumping over to her, and engage in one of those elflings' fighting game they used to have when they were younger … much younger.
"Daeron, you know you've been one of the first I've ever considered as a friend. One could even say that you are my best, if not only real friend."
It was no good. No good at all. He didn't know why, but her voice, for the first time, brought dread to him.
"I guess I can tell you."
And each of her smile was a stab in his heart, as if he knew what was coming. Of course he knew. Too often had he seen that look in a girl's eyes, that tone in their voice, that spring in their step, not to see, not to have seen at the very first look …
"I'm in love, Daeron, you know what ?"And of pure happiness her gaze shone, as she twirled, singing, around the meadow, feeling the sweet taste of the words on her lips.
"He bears name Beren, son of Barahir."
A bitter, bitter taste came into his mouth, and he wanted to spit. Above all, it had to be a Man ? Few and faint rumours of Barahir's twelve compagnions' feats and fall had reached the edge of Melian's Ring, and even lesser had crossed it to reach the ears of the Grey-elves. The general opinion among Thingol's people, following the lead of their King, was that the Edain, Second-Borns, were creatures of rank little above the Orcs. The Elves of Doriath hadn't forgotten the many treasons of the Mortals, spies and soldiers for Morgoth. He had the hardest time to prevent a scornful laugh from escaping his throat, and for once thanked his self-control and mastery of acting. He even managed to force a sincere-looking smile upon his face. But, Lùthien's eyes, clouded by her bliss, saw nothing but the true joy of a friend. He said nothing, as if waiting for more to come. However he needed hear no more.
~'I wish my lady good luck, in front of her father.'~
"I thought, maybe, you know …" She hesitated. It was the first time he had ever heard her to.
~'Yes ?'~
"You're in favour by my Father, and maybe you could speak for him …" A quick laugh. "You know the dispositions of Menegroth well enough."
"If your voice can do nothing, my lady, to the sentence of Thingol, than my say will be of but wretched good."
The answer had come swiftly, crossing the threshold of his lips almost without him ordering it to, and he thought it good, for if he had managed to hold it back, it would have had to be another she would had heard, and for nothing in the world … She turned away, feebly smiling, but at the moment his mind was to confused and chaotic to regret his words. An uncomfortable silence settled.
At that moment, a hoarse voice called, "Tinùviel !" , far away, from somewhere among the trees, as that of one who had not spoken for long time, and had forgotten to. Once again, Daeron felt a pang. How could such a cracked, dry voice dare speak a tongue so noble and pure ? Utter that name of beauty and magic ? But not long did he dwell in his thoughts, for in the blink of an eye with a last flash of laughter, Luthien daughter of Thingol had plunged into the forest, disappearing behind the bushes.
For a moment he stayed still, thunderstruck, trying to get his head to function normally again. Then, with heart still clouded by a shadow of doubt, he went after her, following as silently as he could, and at a safe distance, for he knew, anyway, that if he was the one who had taught her her art of music and dancing, her vigilance and sharp hearing had been trained by Mablung, first Captain of the King, himself.
Stop. Do not make a noise. Not a sound. Hold your breath. Stay still.
They were too infatuated in looking at one another. Walking round the clearing, talking. The world was no more to them. No more than the sanctuary of their eternal love.
Observe. Listen. Can not blind your eyes. Can not deafen your ears.
Eyes locked. Stop pacing. A shy kiss.
See. Hear. Bear. Turn away.
A slight rustle in the leaves they didn't hear, too slight to be that of a rabbit, too harsh to be that of an elf. It was the sign that the royal minstrel had left the outskirts of the clearing, stumbling on the roots of Neldoreth, blinded by the light, blinking his tears away, with a lot less control of his body and acts as he usually had.
As he ran towards Menegroth that afternoon, the doom of Doriath came one thundering step nearer.
He didn't stop running when he reached the border of the forest, but then fell into a walk, the fastest one he could muster without attracting the attention of all the inhabitants of the Hidden City. Running on foot in Menegroth wasn't an everyday sight. Most elves with ranks high enough to be assigned urgent tasks or messages had horses.
No one stopped him at the door of the palace. The guards knew him well, and it was anyway the place he officially belonged in. His steps resounded in the corridors, as he strode past the tall windows carved out from the walls of stone. The soldiers in front of the ebony door to the Great Hall where Thingol and Melian sat were usually a bit more of a challenge to get pass when the King was in High Council, as he was now, but the bard's despair and wrath had grown to be so great that he couldn't care less. They didn't stop him.
Elwë Singollo, King of the Teleri of Middle-Earth, First-Born among the First-Borns, sat on his throne, with his wife, Queen Melian the Maia, to his right. In front of him, facing each other, stood the two rows of his best counsellors and most trusted men, chosen among the wisest and most skilful of the Elves of Doriath, assembling some of the greatest who ever lived to see the plains of Beleriand. There were Mablung, his First Captain, Beleg Cuthàlion, come from the northern frontiers of the Kingdom, Saeros, a Nandor, and many more whose sole name could strike fear in the heart of any Orc, and respect to any Elf.
The Council had been called on urgency, for an important band of Orcs, led by an unknown shadow and rallying around it, had crossed the labyrinths of the Ring, and many of Beleg's men had fallen during the assault, before the rest of them had managed to retreat.
"Usually Orcs wouldn't even have been considered a minor problem. However that day it was different. Alas for my comrades. There was something else, something we couldn't identify. The shadow …"
The door flew open, interrupting his speech, and everyone turned their gaze to the newcomer, and whispers erupted all around the hall. Only Melian stayed still and silent. Thingol stood from his seat, eyes flaring with anger, and Saeros spoke.
"Who dares disturb the Council of my King ?"
"Daeron, minstrel of Thingol." Announced the guard at the door. And as all followed him of their eyes, the figure clothed in shades of grey and white advanced in between them, and great turmoil of emotions could be read on his face. Arrived at the foot of the stairs to the throne, he bent knee in front of his King.
"News, my Lord."
Author's note : OMG, I can't believe I'm actually finished with this chapter. You know the phenomenon, when at the beginning the story just comes flowing out of your head, and then it gets harder and harder ? It's a kind of writer's block, I guess. I was going to add some stuff to this chapter, but will just have to include it in another one. I'm dead right now. Need sleep. The next chapter might either be the continuation of the story, either a scene from the youth of Daeron and Lùthien. I don't know which to put first. You guys think ?