Author's note : About Daeron's name and the translation I gave it. We know that 'dae' means 'shadow'. '-ron' is the mark of gen. pl. 'Daeron' then logically, if I am not horribly mistaken, would mean 'Of shadows'. Therefore my translation of 'Come from Shadows'. The problem being, I think 'dae' is Sindarin, and '-ron' Quenya …. Let's just assume that the two languages have quite similar grammar, right ?
Mablung seems to shrug a lot in this … actually only twice. But God, this is a long chapter …
One question. Does anyone know what the first battle before Dagor-nuin-Gilliath is called ?
Disclaimer : I own nothing.
And so the tune goes on …
By Le Chat Noir
Chapter four : Children of yore
The young elf was led in front of the King, and whispers erupted all around the Hall. It wasn't Menegroth yet, but still the carved columns and polished floor must have looked impressive to the stranger's eyes, for if he kept a somewhat proud countenance his gaze wandered around the hall in patent amazement. He was clothed in simple linen of green, dusty and too large, and his long dark hair was in a tangle, indicating a long period of travelling, for never a decent elf would have allowed himself to look messy, if it could have been helped. In elven standards he was a mere child, maybe, at most, fourty, and for a human he would not have looked older than seventeen, and still, scrawny for his age. Arrived at the foot of the Throne, the two guards thrust him forwards, and he stumbled a few steps, but then promptly regained his balance, blinking twice, standing and looking straight into the face of the King of Beleriand. Then one of the guards spoke.
"My Lord, we have found this intruder on your grounds. He refuses to speak. But we have not killed him, according to your law."
The Grey Robed Lord frowned, but in his heart was a smile, for the foreigner was but a child and his large blue eyes spoke of innocence.
"How old are you, child ?"
"Thirty-two." Was the answer, and all could hear that he had a beautiful voice, clear and bright.
Thirty-two, thought the King. A baby.
"And what is your business here that leads you so far from home ?"
The bright-eyed elf bowed himself double.
"I am come to offer my services to the King of the Umanyar, as minstrel and story-teller."
"And who are you ?"
"A Nandor." The reply had come promptly, and promptly too the Hall was filled with indignant voices and mocking laughter. A Nandor elf, and so young, wanting to sing for the Court of Thingol ? Ridiculous.
"Send him back to where he belongs !" An anonymous voice called, and it was approved by most the nobles elves dressed in fine silks with golden and silver embroideries. The King was silent, and the youth stood there, head bent, in the middle of unanimous scornful disdain.
But suddenly there was silence. Interrupting the contemptuous cries, the dark-haired elf had raised his flute –a roughly carved piece of wood, a real Nandorin instrument- to his lips, and the melody that rose in the air was beautiful, more charming and delightful than anything they had ever heard. They all stood, transfixed, bewitched by the simple and yet complex tune that spoke of wind rustling in foliage and clear river songs under starlit nights. It spoke of nightingales and niphredil and elanor, of dreams and hope and sleep under the trees. Of the full odour of evergreens, and light raindrops and ripples on the silver surface of immortal lakes. Of silence itself.
The song stopped. The young musician did not make a movement, and not a sound was to be heard. At last the King smiled.
"What is your name, my child ?"
The Nandorin elf looked up.
"I was befallen the name of Daeron by my mother's lips."
Thingol rose from his throne.
"Come from Shadows (a/n : see author's note), to Shadows you shall not return. From this day on, my Kingdom will be your home, and you will bear the title of Minstrel of Thingol."
The young elf stood in the middle of his room. It had kind of a low ceiling, compared to others, but still high enough. There was a large bed with immaculate white sheets, a finely carved ebony table, and two plain chairs of the same wood. In a drawer he found paper, ink and quills, while a dresser stood beside his bed. The sunlight streamed in from the round window, and there was a fireplace, in which no flame danced.
It was more than he had ever had in his homeland. But despite this newfound well-being, Daeron felt tears coming to his eyes and flung himself on the bed. He had just realised the dream of his life. The Court of Thingol in its mere dawn was already somewhat of a legend among the East, a place where only the best and greatest could find a place. But to him meant much more the King's last sentence. It meant that from now on, there was no way out for him out of the Hidden Kingdom. He would never see again the woods he had been born in, even if the those of Doriath were ten times fairer, neither the home he had dwelt in, nor his family, the mother he loved, the sister he adored. The hope he had nourished for so long had at last become his prison.
The day was bright and there was not a cloud darkening the sky. Daeron sat in his favourite tree, on a low branch, and held in one hand a pack of some twenty sheets of paper, while with the other he was nonchalantly playing with a quill. The woods were silent, but for the quiet song of various birds and sometimes a quick movement between the trees … sign that a fawn or a fox was sneaking past. As for the musician, he heard nothing, entranced that he was in his composition, which he had to finish for the morrow's evening.
"Boo!"
He had only the time to catch a glimpse of a blurry face framed by light brown hair, and a dark green mantel, before falling backwards off his seat. Luckily, he wasn't too far from the ground, and hit only two other branches before rather ungracefully making harsh contact between the grass and his back, entangled that he was in his long grey cloak.
The sheets of paper he had held landed all around him, and one of them on his face, blocking his vision. But he already knew who was the one who had startled him. It could not have been anyone else.
"Mablung! You idiotic moron!"
Something fell on the ground near him lightly, and a soft laugh was heard, before an elven hand lifted the paper off his face. A pair of warm, amber eyes gazed into his.
"Hail."
Daeron sat up, struggling with his cloak, rubbing his back and grimacing, but at the very moment he was going to give a sharp retort something hit him in the side with such force that he had had the wind knocked out of himself, and fell on his back again, before realizing what the matter was. But when he did, then it was laughing he play-fought with the little elven princess, who looked then no more than three years old. And laughing he asked, his voice interspersed :
"Did you two have a plot against my life ?"
But all the answer he got were giggles and Mablung rolling his eyes. The young archer shrugged, smiling, and turned away from his friend to gather the papers that had fallen all around the place. When Daeron and Lùthien finally stopped fighting, the little girl had managed to pull the young singer's mantel over his face, she herself clinging to his arm, and both of them laughing.
"Here."
Mablung handed the scores back to his friend, pretending to smile patronizingly, but kind of miserably failing. Daeron pulled the cloth off his head, and took them in one hand, quickly looking them over, but not really checking. The swordsman apprentice stood over him.
"You are lucky. She doesn't like me that much."
The musician stood up, leaning slightly right to out balance Lùthien's weight.
"Well, what do you think a girl can like more than music and dancing?"
The little princess peered from over his shoulder.
"And you are always telling me to be silent."
Mablung came one step closer, leaning forwards to look at her at level glance, and pointed his forefinger on the tip of her nose, making her squint.
"I will stop saying that the day when you'll understand that the art of woodcraft consists of seeing and not being seen, tracking and not being tracked, and most of all hearing and not being heard !"
Lùthien stuck out her tongue, and the Minstrel of Thingol gave her a slap on the head.
"A lady of royal blood should not do that."
Mablung shrugged, and turned to look at the sky, sighing.
"I should be going. Beleg is waiting."
He began walking away. Daeron called after him.
"Have fun !"
Mablung's silhouette had already disappeared under the foliage when his reply came.
"Don't worry about that ! Orc-hunting is my favourite pass-time !"
The little girl got down, took the stack of papers from the bard's hand, and sat herself cross-legged on the grass.
"Let me see that. What is it ?"
"Just a little ballad. Nothing really."
Lùthien glanced at him sideways, and began counting the sheets of paper one by one.
"Twenty-one pages. A little ballad, of course."
She shuffled through the papers to find the first page, and then began to read. Daeron stood besides her, looking over her shoulder. After a while, in the middle of her reading, the young princess of Doriath turned to him.
"Daeron, how old are you ?"
He found the question a little surprising.
"Seventy-nine. Why ?"
But there was no answer to his own query, Lùthien going on with her own, with the hand which held the score resting in her lap.
"Mablung's older than you are, isn't he ?"
"Certainly. Ninety-six, if I am not mistaken." He smiled, looking in the direction in which the other elf had disappeared. "He's going to be officially of age in only four more years. Seriously, just look at him."
But the child paid no heed to his remark, dreamily staring off into the distance.
"I am only fifteen. It is not very old."
After a pause she resumed talking.
"Is it true that Father is over two millennia old ?"
This time the inquiry truly startled him.
"Who told you that ?"
She blushed slightly, and bit her lower lip.
"… Someone ?"
She was patently embarrassed, and the minstrel looked at her sternly.
"My lady should not listen to gossip."
The girl turned her eyes to him with her lower lip set into a little pout.
"But is it true ?"
Daeron shrugged, looking away.
"So says the legend."
At night, under the confounded lights of stars and Tilion, Neldoreth lived. A simple flute-playing could be heard in between the trees, the branches. Otherwise, it was the utter silence of a starry night with not a cloud, with neither wind nor cricket troubling the quietude, but the plain discreet melody that didn't even seem to exist, so agreed with the stillness it was. But it was there, it was there for who knew how to listen, flying across the air, leaving a little of its beauty and magic everywhere it passed. Daeron sat with his back to a tree, absolutely motionless, with his wooden flute to his lips. The melody he was playing was inspired by a lullaby his mother sang to him when he was a child, but the tune was not very clear in his memory, so at some moments he had to improvise. But there was no one to hear him, no one but the birds and fawns, and sometimes Nellas, but she never came out of the cover of the trees.
It was the time of the day when already West there is but a bloody streak of red light outlining the horizon, and East the sky was dark, as Isil had not yet risen from under Arda. Lùthien of Doriath stood under the tree in which she knew her musician sat, though no part of him showed.
"Daeron, why do you always sit in trees ? It's getting boring down here."
There was no answer, but to her right, some meters away, a light sound was heard, and she spun round, startled.
"Wrong tree, my lady."
The bard had a mocking smile on his face, and, as he stood up from crouching position, dusted himself of the possible dirt that could have stuck to his clothes. He wore a hat, contrarily to his habits, as a plus to his usual white and grey garments. It was a kind of a beret, round and flat on top, and did suit him somehow, a touch of light blue that matched his eyes.
"Branches are very comfortable seats. But I can get down, too, if my lady wishes."
The girl displayed an insincere frown, to express her discontent at being made fun of. Seeing it, the older elf pasted an overly exaggerated mask of remorse on his face, and flung himself to his knees, prostrating himself.
"Ah ! I have offended the lady of Menegroth. I deserve a thousand deaths."
His voice was dripping with sarcasm, but the show was somewhat ruined by the fact that ten seconds later his shoulders began shaking with repressed laughter. Lùthien walked over to where he was, and stood over him.
"Rise."
He shot up, at once erasing the huge smile from his lips, and bearing but a plain and respectful expression, his face facing downwards, as if he was speaking to the grass.
"My lady said she was bored ?"
The young woman sighed, and rolled her eyes. Just what was she going to do with such a friend ? Being extremely clever and skilled, and knowing it, Daeron still regarded her as the child that had been his student, and never missed a chance to laugh at her expense, but yet always keeping within the limits of good taste.
"Yes. I'm getting tired of dancing alone."
The surprise made him look up, and forget his acting countenance. However, after a second, he burst into laughter, and waved the idea off with his left hand, as the right was holding his lute, and his usual stack of paper.
"You wouldn't find an elf in the whole of Beleriand that could follow your pace, let alone lead you."
The princess cocked her head to one side in a mischievous manner.
"You would. You are the one who taught me."
This time he was so surprised that he took one step back, wearing the very mask of astonishment, only this time it wasn't a mask.
"Sometime the student outdoes the master."
"We'll see that …"
"My lady ! Wait …"
He barely had the time to protest, before she grabbed his hand, laughing, and pulled him forwards, making him drop his instrument, and reach his free hand to his head, trying to prevent the hat from falling, but to no account. The headgear soon laid forgotten at a few paces away from the lute, as the Minstrel and Daughter of Thingol danced together for the first and last time of their lives.
Anar had set, and one by one the Stars of Elbereth lit up in the darkening sky. They danced to the sound of no music but that of the birdsong. It was that night that Daeron first saw Lùthien had grown out of childhood. That the forlorn love found its way to his heart. That one more life was meshed into the thread that was Doriath's fate.
They sat on the grass, back to back, Lùthien softly humming and Daeron letting his hands run stray across the cords, secretly enjoying the contact of her back against his. It was calm, as always, but northwards there was a column of dark smoke slowly rising to the clouds. Beleriand was at war, for the first battle in elven history. Both Teleri were looking in that direction, thinking, but in their minds were very different thoughts.
"All the men are at war. Only the women and children have stayed behind."
She did not look at him, and did not enunciate the question that was burning her tongue, but he understood her anyways.
"My lady must not forget that I am but a scholar, and not able to wield a sword to save my King."
In saying those bitter words his voice stayed calm and shooting, and the music didn't stop, but she felt his back tense.
"Daeron ! You must not say things like that !"
Her voice was a little reproachful, but mostly shocked by the indifference he showed. His answer came preceded by an almost forced little laugh.
"Must I not speak the thruth ?"
But she had recognised the disappointment in his tone, and hazarded.
"I heard you were very good at riding."
Then suddenly the melody broke in a wrong note, probably the first he had ever played.
"And in what may that be of any use to me ? Fleeing ?"
His voice had dropped graver than she had ever heard it, harsher and grimmer than she thought it could go. In anger he pulled a handful of grass out of the earth, but then, not knowing what to do with it, threw it down again. He rose, and, leaving the instrument there, swiftly disappeared under the umbrage, not looking back. Lùthien, a little frightened, dared not move. Daeron had never been mad at her before. To put it plainly, she had never seen him in wrath at all.
There was no more singing that day under the leafage of Neldoreth. North the battle went on raging. But the Daughter of Thingol sat there, in stillness, and watched in agony as the few blades of green grass laid there, broken and left to whither.
Author's note : ::falls dead:: I thought I was never going to be finished with this chapter … Only two more to go now ! In the meantime, if you would please review …