Chapter 4. Lament for Luthien

' 'The leaves were long, the grass was green,

The hemlock umbells tall and fair

And in the glade a light was seen

Of stars in shadow shimmering.

Tinuviel was dancing there

To music of a pipe unseen…'

From: 'The Lay of Leithian'

He did not know where he was, nor did he care.

He had passed mountains, rivers, vast forests, empty plains, almost without notice. His heart was still: his soul darkened. He would die, if he felt he deserved death.

He deserved worse; therefore he lived.

Such was the punishment he had set himself.

His crime: his guilt: his punishment. Not even the gentle starlight was to bring him comfort now.

There had been a time when he had been able to capture the beauty of the world and the firmament in music and song, worthy of the Great Song of Iluvatar itself: but no longer. He lacked the will, though the skill was still there, and in his more waking moments, when he was most aware of himself and his surroundings, he caught himself moving his fingers as if playing an invisible harp, or his pipe.

Involuntary his hands flew to his breast, where the instrument hung on a thong. He had not been able to bring himself to abandon it, when he had left all else behind. Not the fluteon which he had so often played to his love.

His love? She had never been his. She was fairer than all the stars in heaven, and he had tried to translate that into music. That had been the beginning of it. They had praised him and called him the greatest minstrel east of the sea, greater even than Maglor son of Feanor.

What did they know? Nothing! Nothing at all!

Little had he cared for their adulation. The music was hers, and hers alone. The music was her.

Her long shadowy hair, and arms like silver glimmering, her dancing feet, her song, that called forth spring and made flowers bud and open, and melted the winter snows!

Green had been the grass about her, and golden the flowers and he had played for her, hidden, unseen, as she danced.

And then it had come.

That man, her fate.

That mortal man, wandering by paths that no Man nor Elf had ever dared to tread, to the border of Doriath; and he had passed through the mazes that Melian had woven about the Kingdom of Thingol her spouse, stumbling into that land grey and bowed as with many years of woe, so great had been the torment of the road.

It had been summer then, in the woods of Neldoreth, at a time of evening under moonrise, and she had been dancing upon the unfading grass in the glades beside Esgalduin. Blue had been her raiment, as the unclouded heavens, but her eyes were grey as the starlit evening; her mantle was sown with golden flowers, but her hair dark as the shadows of twilight. Like the sun upon the leaves of trees, as the voice of clear waters, as the stars above the mists of the world: such had been her loveliness, and in her face had been a shining light.

He had played his best for her, hidden as always among the hemlock umbells, and oh, how his heart had ached at the sight of her, knowing that he could never speak of his love!

For if she could not read his heart in his music, what hope was there for words?

But he had been content with being merely her piper, since that was all he was to her, as long as there was no other.

And he had known from the moment the man had stepped out into the glade that he would be her doom. For he knew well that none could pass the Girdle of Melian without the Queen's knowledge or consent.

That first, starlit meeting of Beren and Luthien had been meant to happen, though she had fled from him, from autumn into winter; and then a second time the man had come upon her, on the eve of spring, as she had danced and sung. Her song had been as the song of the lark that rises from the gates of the night and pours its voice among the dying stars, seeing the sun behind the wall of the world, releasing the bonds of frost.

Then the man, the intruder, had called out to her : "Tinuviel! Tinuviel!", the woods echoing the name he gave her; and as she halted in wonder, he came to her.

And she loved him : and was lost.

Lost, lost forever to the Eldalië, caught up in the fate of mortal men was she! And he had been witness to that, watching as she fled from Beren's arms, and then returned to lay her hand in his, walking with him in secret through the woods together from spring to autumn, in joy so great, though their time had been brief.

For he had betrayed her.

Thingol, in his anger, would have had the mortal put to death, had not Luthien forestalled him, and made him swear neither to slay nor imprison the man that had stolen her heart. But when Beren had claimed Luthien for his, upon no other grounds than that he loved her, and would have his treasure - oh, the arrogance of that man!- and upon his father's friendship with Finrod Felagund, the King had sentenced him to death as surely as if he had give the order for his execution: for the price that he had set upon his daughter was a Silmaril from the Iron Crown of Morgoth.

Truly, he told himself, he had not wanted this. He only desired to keep Luthien safe, for a while, in Doriath: for a while, for himself. He too had been arrogant in his self-assurance: surely she would forget that stranger, and dance again to his music?! Yet though he had played his merriest tunes she had remained silent, and sang no more.

And when she had heard of Beren's capture by Sauron, and how he had been cast into a pit in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, without hope of rescue, she had resolved to fly, and come herself to his aid. Then she had turned to him, her piper - oh so trusting still! - and sought his assistance.

And he had betrayed her a second time.

And lost her, for good.

For though Thingol had made her a prison - for what else would one call a house with no exit, surrounded with guards?- in the greatest of all the trees in the forest of Neldoreth, by her arts of enchantment she had escaped from all eyes, and vanished out of Doriath.

Lost, lost lost, was his Luthien! Betrayed by family and kin, betrayed by friendship itself, betrayed by him: Daeron the Minstrel, Daeron the Fool, Daeron the Traitor. Nevermore would she trust him, nevermore would she dance on the banks of Esgalduin, nevermore would her song be heard in the clear morning and the deepening twilight. For she had gone to find her lover, and surely she would perish with him, into darkness and deadly night. Would that he were at her side, and perish first!

He too had left the realm of Thingol, searching for her, and in his despair he had walked upon strange paths…yet none so strange as the wanderings of his own, guilt-ridden mind.

Sometimes it seemed to him as if he could see her, afar, as leaves in the winds of autumn, and in winter as a star upon a hill forever beyond his reach, and even as Beren had he would cry out: "Tinuviel! Tinuviel!", yet only the wind would answer, and the rustling of the dark waters by which he now dwelt.

Again he touched the instrument on his breast, lovingly stroking the silken-soft wood with long, nimble musician's fingers.

Perhaps he should play.

He found that he had already put the flute to his lips, and he put it down again.

Music had been his life, as Luthien had been; by his actions he had forfeited her: it was no more than justice then that he should forfeit music as well.

A fitting punishment for his crime.

With trembling hands he hauled the thong from over his neck, and held the pipe over the swift-running waters of the river.

No more music…

He had played the first notes already before he realised it.

One last song, a lament, for Luthien.

And he played, as he had never played before, a song of sunlight and twilight, of quiet laughter and white flowers, of dancing feet and midnight hair, and the smile upon her face.

Farewell, Luthien.

As the last note died, he held out his arms again, and opened his hands.

The instrument made hardly a sound as it hit the water.

"Farewell, Luthien!"

He had called out the words, despite himself, though he knew there would be no answering call for him, even if she had been there: for him, nothing but the wind whistling in the rushes and the reeds, and the howling of the wolves.

They were closing in on him now; having followed him since he had come down Hithaeglir, the Towers of Mist. Yet he had not fled before them, for he would have welcomed death at their fangs.

Possibly they preferred the chase, that he withheld from them: and so they had kept their distance, now approaching, now falling back, but always there.

Apparently they had come to a decision; he was glad of it. There would be an end.

Another howl rent the night-air. Closer still: they were coming. He could see their evilly-glinting eyes, yellow in the moonlight, like slit-lanterns, nearer and nearer, creeping forward on soft hunter's feet….

"I am not afraid of Death!"

They halted, and there was a sound as of laughter, and then the forward-most wolf, a pale grey shape, lowered on her haunches, ready to fly for his throat.

He closed his eyes, and bowed his head to his fate.

Now. Let it be.

Something whistled past him and there came yet another howl, of pain and fear this time, and as he looked up, he saw three wolves lying dead upon the ground, and the others fleeing into the shadows.

How?

Gingerly, he stepped forward, to where the leader of the pack lay, a white-feathered dart stuck in its throat.

But who, in this great loneliness of land and air and river could have- would have- come to save him?

"Whoever thou art,' he whispered, 'I thank thee not. My life no longer matters: there was no need to risk thine to save mine."

A laugh, short, sharp and clear, like the breaking of ice, was his answer.

'I did not slay those wolves to save you, Sindar, for in truth I care even less for your life than you seem to do, but rather because I would not have them get a taste for elven flesh."

He spun round: there was only darkness, and the river.

Soft laughter mocked him.

" Can you not judge by the angle of the darts from whence they flew, nor judge the direction by the sound of my voice? Truly, Elwe's people have gone soft with easy living within the protection of Melian's Girdle."

" Who is it that names my King and kinsman thus?" called he, for it surprised him to hear the ancient name of Thingol spoken here in this wilderness so openly.

"One who knew him before he took the title of King, and put himself above his fellows." replied the voice

"Show yourself !"

"If you wish" said she, for it was a she, that much he gathered from the lightness of the voice, and such was confirmed as a slender, female elf slid down from a tall willow tree, not far from where he was standing.

Little though did she resemble the maidens of Menegroth, for she was clad in man's apparel, with midnight hair cropped short, a long white knife unsheathed at her side, a long, thin blowpipe in her hand. Wild she was, and fair, and free, and she did not resemble Luthien in any way. And yet he felt as if he could follow her to the ends of the earth and back. This was not the majesty Thingol commanded, nor the hold of love Thingol's daugther had over him, but something he could not name, something that was both ancient and yet very young, something he had not known he had lost, and found again.

Whatever else he was, he had always been a courteous elf : he bowed to her.

"Lady.'

For a moment, scorn and disdain passed over her face, then, with a shrug, she dismissed his show of deference as of no consequence, and pushed past him without another word. Kneeling by the dead beasts she withdrew the darts and, after having cleansed them of blood and gore, replaced them in the bandoleer she wore across her chest. Then she drew her knife, and proceeded to skin them.

"How can you bear to touch those …those…?"

" They are but wolves. And we Avari do not kill superfluously. These pelts will keep my people warm in winter."

"Darkelves!" he cried out, " you are a Darkelf!'

She paused to look at him.

" Do they still call us that? No doubt they think of themselves as being 'Lightelves': those who have gone to Aman and beheld the Trees of the Valar, or at least have undertaken the journey. Still, the Trees are gone, and many of those who once passed over the waters have returned."

He stared at her in wonder, while she continued her grisly work.

"How can you know of this? Never has any of your kind crossed the Great River."

Again she halted, and looked at him and inquired casually, patiently, as she tore the skin off the wolf-carcass, flung it aside and started another:

" Which side of the river are we now?"

"…West…"

"Then it would seem that at least one of us has crossed."

He clapped his hands to his head and shook it.

As chief loremaster of his King, he had often travelled among the elven peoples west of the mountains, even among the Laiquendi or Greenelves of Ossiriand though they had been a rustic kind of folk, and of little interest, and even less so after the advent of the Noldor, for most had perished in the First War of Beleriand.

Little had they spoken of their kinsfolk left behind East of the Hithaeglir, and of those who had never undertaken the journey from Cuivienen, hardly anything at all. Some, and he had been among those, had doubted the continued existence of these Darkelves. He doubted it even now. How could this she-elf have knowledge of these matters, if she were Avari? Either those Darkelves managed to survive in dwindling numbers in the furthest east and never passed the Mountains, or had deminished to the savage creatures that were Orcs. It seemed that she had guessed his thoughts, for she looked at him again, with a smile that was not free from some contempt, and said: " Just because you have never shown an interest in your kin in the East, does not mean we have none in you! True: we are Avari, that is 'the Unwilling'. True again: we have never beheld the light of Aman, and could therefore, conceivably, be branded as Darkelves. Yet we have ever been a free folk, wandering this fair earth without constraint Oft have I - and others like me - travelled the lands that your 'kings' hold, when they were still nameless and untamed by Elf…or Man, for that matter. And in later ages, we have dwelt among you without notice, learning of your ways, admittedly sometimes to our benefit, but more often than not with pain: for we like it not what you have become: proud, overbearing, masterful."

She fell silent.

"Lady…"he began, and faltered. Though her words had been cold and hard, they were not wholly unjust, and had he himself not shown great arrogance towards the Laiquendi? He recalled, too, how in the twentieth year of the Sun, Fingolfin King of the Noldor had made a great feast, held in spring, near the pools of Ivrin: Mareth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting. Thither had come many of the chieftains of the people of Fingolfin and Finrod his brother's son, and Maedhros and Maglor the sons of Feanor, and a number of Grey-elves from the woods of Beleriand and folk from the Havens with Cirdan their Lord, and even some Green-elves from Ossiriand, such as were left; and he too had been there, with his friend Mablung, as messengers from King Thingol. At Mereth Aderthad many counsels had been taken in good will, and oaths sworn of league and friendship, yet all that time he had not been able to shake off the feeling that somehow, to the Noldor, and especially the mighty sons of Feanor, he and his kind were 'less'. Finrod alone had been an exception: he had come to Doriath for a while with his sister Galadriel, as guests of King Thingol, and he had been so filled with wonder at the the strength of Menegroth, its treasuries and armouries and its many-pillared halls of stone, that he had a like stronghold build in the deep gorge of the river Narog and the caves under the High Farath in its steep western shore; and it had come to be called Nargothrond. Galadriel went not with him, for in Doriath she had met Celeborn his cousin *, and there was great love between them. Therefore she had remained in the Hidden Kingdom, abiding with Melian, learning great lore and wisdom concerning Middle Earth.

In all fairness it could be said that the Noldor were indeed superior, in that they had the greater power of mind and body, and were the mightier warriors and sages, as they had proved time upon time, at Dagor-Nuin-Giliath, the Battle-under the Stars, when they first arrived, and Dagor Aglareb, the Glorious Battle, and at the Siege of Angband. Fingon, prince of Hithlum, had even driven back Glaurung, the first if the Uruloki, the fire-drakes of the North, after whose defeat had followed the Long Peace of well-nigh two hundred years, and all Beleriand had prospered and grown rich.

And yet, fortuitous though the arrival in the hour of need the coming of the Noldor had been, it left a bitter aftertaste in the mouths of those who knew the truth: not in aid of their kin in Middle Earth had they come, as they would have all believe, but to retrieve the Silmarils Morgoth stole, and to seek and carve out kingdoms of their own to rule them at their own will.

Thus, they had been cursed and were exiled; and even if they repented and sought to return to Valinor to sue for pardon, what ship would bear them back across so wide a sea?

Well enough did he understand the feelings of the Avari in this! They had ever remained in the twilight world, and never aspired to anything greater than being a Free Folk of hill and wood and fen.

Another thought struck him.

"Lady…if you despise us so much, why did you save me? Your explanation does not ring true: surely it can not be a mere coincidence that you came to be here right on time! Were you following me?"

She made no answer, but finished her work on the last wolf, then went to the water's edge to cleanse her sullied hands and knife. Only then, as she replaced the weapon at her side, did she speak.

"I do not despise you. I could not: you are an elf, and my kin, sundered and estranged though you may be.

We were aware of your presence in these regions for some time now, and yes, we followed you, for a lone Elf is an easy target, and we feared that you might attract such fell creatures as there are between the Mountains and the River. And we were right, were we not?" she waved a dismissive hand at the carcasses, " Still, I would not have sought you out, were it not for the music!"

She turned to face him: and her stern countenance had become soft and gentle, and her eyes shone;

"I have not heard a pipe played in such a manner for a long time! That music should not die."

"Yet die it will, for it is Death I have come to seek in this wilderness." said he; yet even as he spoke, his voice trembled, for his resolve was not so strong as it once had been. If she had noticed this tremble, she did not let it show.

"That must be your decision, Harper, I shall not stop you. Still, if I can command some gratitude of you, I would, for my trouble, dearly love to hear you play once more."

"That would be my pleasure!" he answered, before he thought, and then he had to add, shamefacedly: "Alas, I can not grant your wish! I threw my flute into the River."

"You are a man of uncompromising passions."she remarked with a slight smile, " But that can be remedied. I have a pipes that you may play on."

The musician in him reared its head, and made him answer rather stiffly: " I can not play on just any old instrument!"

Her smile deepened.

"Not even on the Pipes of Iluve?"

"Iluve!"

Only once had he heard that name mentioned: Thingol had once compared him to that great Harper of the dawn of time, the first Elf to have wrought sound to music.

"Oh, I would live but to behold that instrument, to play it would be more than I deserve!" he cried, overcome.

"Quite probably." said she, soberly, and there was a sudden sadness in her face, as of an old, old pain that can never be forgotten: a sorrow that ran deep, but not so deep as to blot out all else, for there was a great strength in her, and a love that admitted no defeat. Rather than suffer the loss, she celebrated the memory of happier days.

She swept a hand over her face, and the sadness was gone.

"However, I will not pronounce judgement. But it is my belief that there is no crime so great that it can not be forgiven, when repentance is true and forgiveness asked."

Tears welled up in his eyes then, and in a choking voice he confessed his crime to her. She heard it in silence, and in silence she turned away from him. He fell to his knees, and cried out: "Oh, slay me then, for you have passed judgement on me! And truly, mine is a crime that can not be pardoned: I have betrayed, and lost my love."

"You have never loved at all." said she coldly, " But in the way of all your kind: that sees beauty and strives to possess it. I do not blame you: it is but what the Valar taught you. When you love someone, you let him go free." And she added in a whispered voice filled with pain: " As I did, as I did, though my soul lives in torment ever since…ah, perhaps yours is the better way to love: at least it does not hurt so much. No, no, forget I said that: what do I know of your heart? I spoke too rash, too harsh."

"You spoke truth." said he,"And showed me what I am : greedy, desirous of what I can not have, and full of self-pity. I thought I played a lament for Luthien, when in reality it was for myself. What you heard was nothing: worthless. I have some small skill as a Harper, but I have never played music as it should be played : from within. For if I were to lay bare my soul, it is a false tune you would hear!"

"Perhaps a fairer one than you think." said she, gently." Shall we see? Follow me to were my people dwell. It is best not to linger here: there are still wolves near."

As if to confirm her words, a great howling of many fell voices was heard through the deepening night.

"So. They have regained their courage, and have called their foul kin to their aid. Those are Warg-howls, at least seven I would say, by the sound of it, and some dozen wolves."

"Then we are doomed!" cried he in dismay, " Lady, hand me your knife. I shall fight for you, and our lives shall be dearly bought."

"This from the Elf who only moments ago was craving death! You are quick to change your mind on so grave a matter."

"This is no time for jest! They will be upon us any time now."

She remained unperturbed.

"They are about a mile away still. Time enough to call for assistance."

From her belt she pulled forth a strange object: wooden, hollow and oblong, with a slit in its belly,sharp,wing-like shapes at its sides and a strong cord on one end. She began to spin it round and round over her head in swift, steady movements, and a loud, penetrating sound issued forth.

"We call it a 'screech-fin' " she explained, " A call-signal we use when one is in need. The beasts of Morgoth have learned to fear its sound, for death, to them, will follow in its wake."

Suddenly, there was a thudding noise, and from the willow tree on the side facing the river protruded a longshafted arrow. It had a thin line attached to it, and as she pulled it in, a thick rope followed.

Deftly, she swung it round the tree twice and knotted it fast, so that it ran tight across the water. Then she gave a long, low whistle, and was answered, and from the opposite bank came several green-clad elves came running, over the rope, armed with long bows and sharp knives. They swiftly took position along the river's edge, their visages dark and grim, their eyes narrowed, with a cold hard light coming from within.

"Come! My warriors will deal with the Wargs. Let us across, and I shall lead you to the safety of our camp. Will you follow me?"

She held out her hand.

He did not hesitate. No, his shame, his guilt, had not been forgotten. Yet it seemed to him that he was offered a chance to redeem himself. Oh, that she might come to trust him! How dearly he wished to prove himself worthy!

Another kind of shame came over him: was he not a coward, never could he hope to equal the bravery of these people, who dwelt on the edge of danger all their life, and had not lost courage; whereas he, who had lived in peace and comfort, had had none. He had fooled himself into believing that he was searching for his lost love, but in reality, he had been fleeing from the consequences of his misdeeds. And Luthien had paid the price.

He took the she-elf's hand.

"Lady, no longer will I seek solace from my woes in flight and death. Instead, like you, I shall face them. Gladly will I follow!"

She smiled.

"My name is Ilwe."

To be continued.

* see appendix (previous chapter)

Note of the author: part of the above is derived or copied from 'The Silmarillion'. Iluve and Ilwe are original characters. The screech-fin is an idea I picked up from the 1968 Flemish television series 'Keromar'.