This story is dedicated to Treehugger whose continuous emotional support sustains my writings.

Title: Fragile Flame

Author: Artanis ( aranel_iluvataro@yahoo.com)

Content: PG-13, Daeron/OC romance.

Disclaimer: I don't own Daeron or Luthien. However, I own the OC who will appear in next chapter.

Chapter 1: Remembrance

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you.

He was lonely. All his kin had sailed to the West after the fading of the Three Elven Rings. Elven realms had nothing which could sustain them from decay of the age. The only place for their weary hearts was the safe haven, the blissful West. Daeron sighed deeply to himself. Having been estranged for three ages from his kin, he longed for them. Still his shame would not allow him to return. He was the betrayer of Luthien, their beloved princess. And his love.

He remembered the past, when he was young and was recently employed by Thingol into his service. The beauty of the Princess was well known among their people, yet so little of them had the fortune to behold her by their own eyes. And the young minstrel of Doriath was one of the lucky ones.

Under the moonlight was when he first saw her, the creature who made everyone praise the glory of Iluvatar. She was wearing a simple dress that could hide none of her angelic features. There she danced, fairer than a butterfly, swifter than wind, lighter than air, and gentler than the spring breeze. The wind was singing for her, and starlight rested between her tresses, flowers grew under her feet, and beasts were silent. And he fell under her feet in unutterable awe, for even the most divine song could not describe her beauty.

People said that her dance had brought Beren back to life, but he was slain by her beauty. He fell to his knee and stayed motionless. Time seemed to freeze as he watched her dance between the trees, which seemed to give way for her paces. At last, she saw him, and smiled as she saw his awestruck face.

"Hail, stranger. Here, let me help you up." She gave her hand and helped him standing up. Then suddenly he felt himself rejoined her dance by his voice. And they danced until Ithil rested and Anar rose shyly behind the mountains. Not until then, he could sing such melody. It was as if her dances which shaped the song and not the opposite. People called him the greatest minstrel of Arda, yet he thought that he was a mere singer, inspired by the unspeakable magnificence of the dancer of Doriath.

He adored her, admired her, worshipped her. Sometimes until the brink of madness. Did she ever realize his love for her? The minstrel never knew. He surely sang to her with all his heart and soul, as if exalting a goddess. And for him, Luthien was a goddess, infinite in beauty and power. Imagining her as mere maiden, let alone mortal, frightened him to the bone. How could he see her wither? Age? And eventually die? What would the world be without her? What would he be without her?

He knew that Luthien had never loved him, and never would. He did not expect her to return her love, after all a goddess needed more than a mere person as he was. But he would not let the destitute mortal, Beren, win her heart and ultimately cause her to forsake her immortality. No! Betrayal was the only way to prevent it. And so he did. He betrayed her, twice.

Oh, her eyes when she looked at him! There was no hatred there, nor grudge. Only sadness, and weirdly, pity. "You do not understand love," she said, "I will pray to the Valar for you."

Now he realized that she was right, he was ignorant of the meaning of true love. For the beloved was the subject of love, and not an object for worship. For his love was hers to possess, and not his. And he had no right to direct the course of her love.

Strange that her beauty actually bloomed most after her return from Mandos, when her remaining breath was shorter than a wild flower. Perhaps her beauty had been purified under the threshing floor of Love. She had lost everything, yet she possessed everything.

For love is sufficient unto love.

And now his teacher was gone, overcome by the power of Death she had chosen for herself. Leaving him to mourn endlessly in remorse and grief.

My love was a rose.

It bloomed for a day and withered.

How beautiful was yesterday!

When your feet complied with my melody.

And your heart was virgin still,

With no knowledge of love nor passion.

But my heart had fallen for you.

Deeper than any ocean, fiery than any flames

Burning my soul inside out

Making me helpless by its jealousy

Ah! If only you could see

The purity of my love,

Beyond my tainted deeds

*************

First and second italic is from The Prophet by Khalil Gibran, my favourite poet ever.

Many thanks to Ithilwen for beta reading.