Disclaimer: All are Tolkien's. Sort of. Er.
Pairing: Not saying. Figure it out.
Rating: G.

Author's Note: For Nicole, aka superforeigner. Though inspired by our brainstorming for another idea, this is totally unrelated and has no other meaning whatsoever. It was just fun to jot down. :)

The only difference was, she really could sing.

Her voice was like nothing ever heard before in the grimy heart of the city, like something lost, something that should never have been again...and yet there it was, winding through the smoky bar, night after night. And when she sang, people forgot everything -- their problems, their fears, even their drinks. They forgot everything and merely...listened...until the last simple note died away and the slim pale dark-haired girl retired backstage to seek her meager pay.

Word spread. She acquired an agent. He found better venues, and he arranged to capture her beautiful voice in a recording studio. Her performance was never as good on tape as it was live, but it was still amazing, and it could still wend its way into the heart of anyone who listened to it.

Only in urban legend does a cheap demo fall into the hands of a big-name music executive. Only in a fairytale can the peasant girl catch the eye -- or in this case, the ear -- of the king. But this is what happened. One moment she was dreamily crooning into a beer-scented microphone at a second-rate nightclub; the next she was sitting bewildered in an expensive office in a tall mirrored building, signing this and that and oh yes don't forget this...

And after all this was done, after the champagne corks popped and many hands were shaken and many names were spoken (and forgotten), she was shown down a long hallway to a great oak door. The thick carpet swallowed her footsteps, and the door handle turned soundlessly in her hand. This was the office of the one who owned the company in the tall mirrored bulding. This was the man -- she realized with a sudden startled sinking sensation -- who now owned her.

The door opened easily, despite its size. She shoved aside her misgivings and stepped within, her brow furrowed as she concentrated on the pretty little thank-you speech she had composed in her mind. And then she looked up, and all the lovely words fled her mind like startled nightengales.

He was not frightening in appearance. In fact, he was handsome, dark-haired and dark-eyed and elegant in perfectly-tailored silk. He sat behind a great mahogany desk at the other end of a great expanse of office, sparsely decorated and quietly tasteful. She had never seen him before in her life...but she looked into his eyes and she knew who he truly was.

And, more importantly, he knew exactly who she truly was.

She stood frozen, deerlike, heart thudding against her ribs and blood roaring through her ears. For his part, he merely smiled charmingly and steepled his hands to rest his chin therein. Oddly, he was wearing dapper grey gloves just the exact storm-cloud shade of his expensive suit...

"Dance for me again, Luthien," Melkor said.

And behind her, the door clicked shut.