The sun was high and hot, and the flowers in the clearing where Daeron sat seemed to droop wearily away from it. They were overdue for a good rain, Daeron thought. But it was a nice enough day for those who weren't flowers. The branches rustled and the squirrels chattered as small clouds drifted by. Daeron sat on the dry grass and lazily played an étude on his flute, a repetitive little study on half notes and trills. Rather boring to listen to, but he was alone, and the squirrels did not seem to mind it.
The purpose of such a piece was to focus on his technique, but instead Daeron found himself thinking about Thingol's meeting Beren, the man who had dared to kiss Lúthien. It had been wise of the king not to deny Beren outright, but instead to set an impossible price for his daughter. Had Thingol denied Beren outright, he would have closed all honorable means forward to Beren. That would only invite him to take dishonorable ones. No, if that man claims to love Lúthien, let him prove it. Yes, it was sad that he would surely be killed in the attempt, but men die all the time.
Really, though, he was being very generous in assuming that Beren would actually attempt to get a Silmaril. Most likely, his boasts had been only to save face. He would probably decide that living to love some lesser woman would be preferable to dying for Lúthien. It didn't really matter which one Beren did though. The important thing is that he had left. Now things would go back to normal.
