The Singer’s Gift

By

TreeHugger

Disclaimer: The majority of the characters are the property of the Tolkien estate. The children on the beach are my own creation, as are Maedheryn and Menelmathron.

Chapter 1 – The Singer

The children ran along the golden beach, the surf that surged gently over the glistening sand erasing their footprints behind them. Their delighted voices filled the spring air with laughter as they pursued one another, the cold water lapping over bare toes. A tall youth with shaggy golden brown hair led the way. He was perhaps twelve summers old, his handsome face showing a glimpse of what it would be in manhood, yet still softened by the roundness of the childhood he was leaving behind. One of his hands was clasped about a small girl-child’s, her own laughter ringing out like silver bells as she pushed herself to keep up with his longer strides, not knowing that he had already shortened his own so as not to leave her behind. A cloud of dark hair floated about her, crowned with the first pale roses of the season. The others followed after them, giving merry chase.

Suddenly the tall youth halted, scooping the girl into his arms protectively, his grey eyes widening. The others thudded to a halt behind them, staring past his slender frame with eyes wonder-widened, their voices fallen away into silence.

Standing several feet away was a tall figure swathed in a ragged cloak the color of a storm-ridden sea. He stood with the water splashing over his ankles and bare feet and his eyes fixed on the glittering sea, a long slender staff of pale wood clasped in one hand. A gull’s feather and some seashells danced on leather ties where they had been fastened near the staff’s top. But the thing that held the children spellbound was the voice that lifted on the morning air.

It was a quiet voice, singing in a language they did not understand, but were oddly moved by; the exotic flow of words held them mesmerized until the voice fell away and only the sound of the water washing on the shore filled their ears. The sudden cessation of the song left them feeling bereft, as though they had lost something beautiful and highly prized, something rare and precious.

“The Singer,” one of the children murmured at last, her fingers moving to clutch the back of the older boy’s shirt.

The children studied “The Singer”, seven pairs of eyes huge with fear and amazement.

Slowly he turned toward them, as though just now aware of their presence. He pushed the hood from his head, reaching back to free a long spill of ebony hair, letting it fall loosely past his slim waist. Magnificent grey eyes regarded the children and they gasped, for his face held an unearthly beauty, the likes of which they had never seen before or even dreamed of.

The Singer gazed silently at them as they continued to study him in awe.

Finally the eldest boy overcame his fear and noted the worn clothing the stranger wore, all in shades of blue and grey.

~Twilight colors, ~ he thought with a chill of fear and excitement coursing through him. For that was what they called him, Twilight Singer. His voice had been heard of an evening by the inhabitants of the small fishing village that rested here on the northeastern corner of the Sea of Rhun. Only a voice, always disembodied, for the superstitious villagers didn’t venture to find out who was singing in the dark of night as the first stars appeared to light the sky.

“Is he a ghost?” one of the smallest boys asked, his hand moving to clasp that of his twin brother. They moved closer together until their slim shoulders were touching, identical freckled faces filled with disquiet and wonder beneath thick thatches of sun-burnished chestnut hair.

The oldest girl, a willow-slender maiden of fourteen, stepped forward, her blue eyes bold above her rosy cheeks.

“Who are you?” she queried, lifting her pointed chin in challenge as she spoke the question they all wanted answered but could find no voice to ask.

There was talk in the village of this Twilight Singer, whom all had heard but none had seen until this day. Some of the villagers said it was a ghost, the lost soul of a fisherman drowned in the Sea in some forgotten age, or one of the Sea People with glittering tales like fishes that were said to inhabit the blue depths of the sea; others said it was a wanderer from the East, an unknown being that would seek to ensnare them with its voice, which was fey and too beautiful and heartbreaking to be human.

A few of the village ancients, that sat at the inn telling tales of the bygone era of their youth to anyone who would listen and mayhap drop a few coins for an ale to wet an old throat, said it was one of the Forgotten People, creatures of the Elder Days when the world was different and not so old. This was usually met with skeptical laughter and hearty claps on the old ones’ backs or shoulders, and occasionally rewarded with the sought after glass of ale. But some few remembered the tales told by their grandparents of a race of tall, slender folk in the West: beautiful and wild they were, living in gleaming cities carved from the mountains or beneath the spreading green leaves of the forests, dancing and singing beneath the stars in the twilit grass.

The children thought of this now as The Singer’s eyes settled on the tall girl, who gasped slightly as she was caught between the desire to flee or to step toward him. Something ancient and wise lived behind those mist-hued eyes; something so sorrowful that she did move forward a pace or two, one hand lifting as if to comfort him. His gaze lingered on her; a sorrow moving through him, an old pain that had never truly left him.

~It has always been thus, ~ he thought, seeing her fascination with him. ~They find us magical and fall captive to us, and at times . . . we to them. ~

Then his voice broke the eldritch spell; he sang not but spoke, and in their own language.

“I am Daeron, a wanderer in the shadows.”

The children stared at him in astonishment, not having expected him to address them in words they knew and understood, though his voice made the simple words sound strange and wondrous. It was unlike any voice they had heard, and they continued to gaze at him in amazement.

He met their eyes for a time, and then his gaze fell upon the youngest of them, the small girl held protectively in the circle of the tall youth’s arms. Her blue eyes widened as his eyes met hers and she stilled, barely breathing. Then she squirmed, looking to the youth, silently demanding release. When she stood once more on the sand, she moved slowly toward the tall Singer, hearing the quiet noise of protest behind her. Her fingers twined in her white skirts, which had been carefully embroidered with blue and pink flowers.

She tilted her head back to stare up at him, thinking him incredibly tall, taller than her own father, who was not a fisherman but a blacksmith and bigger than any man in the village, both in height and girth.

The Singer stared down at her, then knelt before her, smiling kindly and replacing the wreath of roses that had slipped backwards on the dark tresses. He was rewarded with her beautiful smile.

“It is my birthday,” she chirped proudly, her fingers touching her rosy crown and meeting his fingers for just a moment. “My mama made me this,” she continued, indicating her beautiful floral circlet. “She has the most beautiful roses in the village.”

The Singer smiled at her, her enthusiasm touching his heart which so seldom felt anything but sorrow and regret.

“Happy birthday, little one,” he said in a low voice. “What is your name?”

“Niphredil,” she answered in an almost defiant voice, her bottom lip thrusting out.

The oldest girl rolled her eyes expressively, but The Singer could see the affection shining on her face.

“Her mother is a romantic,” the girl said by way of explanation, having heard this from her own mother and aunts many times. She took another step forward. “She said that niphredil is a flower, though it is no flower that any of us have ever seen.”

“She said that it blooms in the starlight,” the twins said together, emboldened now, seeing that the Singer wasn’t going to eat them or drag them to watery graves beneath the cold Sea.

Suddenly another young boy moved forward, pushing past the others, his eyes filled with a fierceness that surprised Daeron. The boy flicked aside a stray lock of his own dark hair and said, “Do not make fun of her name.” His eyes swept over the other children as well as the intruder. “It is the perfect name for her, and even if there are no niphredil flowers, Niphredil is herself as lovely as a flower, and therefore her name is most fitting.”

Daeron watched as the twins nudged one another, exchanging amused glances. The older girl shook her head, and the girl that had called him “The Singer” giggled behind her hands. He smiled at Niphredil once more before standing again.

“Niphredil is a night blooming flower that grew in the West. It seems that Niphredil’s ‘romantic’ mother has chosen a most appropriate name for this charming little blossom.” He winked at the girl-child and she beamed happily. She had never doubted that her mama knew things that other people didn’t. If she said that niphredil was a white flower that bloomed only beneath the stars, then it was so.

The oldest boy, whose name was Lothar, moved forward, putting himself in front of all the other children but Niphredil, his face belligerent. Just because Niphredil could be taken in by the stranger’s seeming kindness, he was not so convinced.

“How do you know what niphredil is?” he demanded. “And what were you singing earlier? That was no language that I have ever heard before.” Lothar’s father was a most important person in the village, and had traveled to the far cities in the east and occasionally to smaller settlements and villages beyond the small rise of mountains to the west to trade for what was needed or wanted in the village of Ulumfal. Lothar had only begun to accompany him the summer before, and felt himself to be most educated and knowledgeable in many things that the others were ignorant of.

“You are being rude,” the eldest girl said with a sniff. Being two years older than he, she felt she could still ‘put him in his place’ from time to time. “Forgive us, sir. My name is Vaya. Welcome to Ulumfal.” She curtsied then, a blush painting her cheeks. “This is Lothar, whose manners need some refinement,” Vaya said pointedly with a glare at ‘well-traveled’ youth. “The twins are Maren and Menel.” Each boy bowed when his name was pronounced, impish grins on their faces. “Dunie is the one hiding behind Lothar. Shai is Niphredil’s grand defender; and Niphredil has already introduced herself.”

Daeron smiled at the formalities and pressed his hand to his heart, tipping his head to them.

It wasn’t often that he moved among the mortals that seemed to be spreading across the lands he traveled on his lonely path. Only when he needed something from one of their towns or villages did he venture among them, hooded and cloaked. He would sing for the coins they would toss at him, enchanting them with his songs; some merchants even offering their wares at no charge if he would merely stand before their shops or stalls and sing, or play his flute or pipes, knowing that the crowd would gather about this strange ‘man’ with a magical voice. He had never enjoyed being surrounded by so many people at once, certainly not by the mortals he had never truly learned to like, though he no longer despised them as he once had.

“As it is your birthday, Niphredil,” he said, turning to the child once more whose hand had crept to touch the faint traces of embroidery that remained on his tattered blue tunic, “I would like to give you a gift.”

“You would?” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and shining.

“Yes. But you see, I am a poor soul and cannot offer you anything very fancy or expensive.”

He had noticed the boy called Shai start slightly at this, and he wondered if perhaps the youth understood this only too well. Daeron gestured toward the low dunes behind them, and he led them to where he had made his small camp for the past few weeks.

Lothar, Dunie, and Shai hesitated at first, but seeing the twins start after the Singer and Niphredil, whose hand was clasped in the stranger’s own, and Vaya who trotted on his heels, they followed.

Lothar’s eyes swept over the small camp, noting the fire pit filled with burned driftwood and ashes, the smoothed out hollow where Daeron made his bed. His eyes moved to regard the tall dark-haired stranger once more. In all his travels, which he could admit to himself weren’t numerous; he had never seen anyone that looked as this slender Singer did. He had certainly never heard anyone that sounded like him, or moved with such unconscious grace.

The Singer gestured for them to sit upon the sand, even taking off his much mended cloak and spreading it for them to sit upon while he perched with Niphredil on his lap on a log someone had drug from the nearby wood to use as a seat. He had laid his staff aside, propped against a rather battered leather bag that held all his possessions. A carefully fashioned rod with a string and a hook attached lay on the sand beside a pair of worn brown sandals.

The children settled on the cloak: Vaya leaning forward, her eyes riveted on the fair face of the visitor; Dunie huddled shyly behind her, the twins crowding in front. Lothar sat stiffly on Vaya’s other side, his head tilted at an arrogant angle. Shai sat apart from them, warily studying the Singer and keeping an eye on Niphredil.

“Where I come from, I was a . . . a keeper of histories and stories, a teller of tales. A singer.” He smiled, seeing their eyes widen at this statement. “So I would like to gift you with a story, young Niphredil, and then perhaps a song as well. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes!” the child cried happily, for she was never more content than sitting at her mother’s knee listening to the wonderful tales that Yanna, her wonderful mother, told her. Now perhaps she, Niphredil, would be the one to tell a story.

Daeron smiled at her enthusiasm. It had been a very long time since he had told a story for the sheer enjoyment of it or sung a song for anything but his own longing or money for food or shoes.

“I will tell you the tale of a child whose birth was celebrated throughout a kingdom; a child whose birth brought about the first blooming of the niphredil. This is a true story,” he said, seeing the looks of skepticism on the faces of Lothar and Shai. “It happened long ago in a kingdom now drowned beneath the western sea.”

For a moment a look of deepest sorrow marred the Singer’s face, and he closed his eyes. Then he felt the gentle touch of Niphredil’s hand on his cheek, wiping away the tears that glistened there. He smiled at her tenderly, the smell of the white roses in her hair rising to him in the warming air. His smile deepened as he thought of how to begin his tale. Yes, there was only one way for it to begin.

“Once upon a time there was a great elven king named Elwe Singollo, called Greymantle. He was the ruler of what you now call the Forgotten People. His wife Melian gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Her name was,” he hesitated slightly; it had been so long since last he had spoken her name aloud, “Luthien Tinuviel, and she was the fairest of all the creatures that have ever walked the earth . . . .”

TBC

Chapter 2 – Child of Starlight, Child of Shadow

            The young elf knelt in the verdant grass, his long slender fingers floating above the small flowers that bloomed there like white stars in an emerald sky.   Their fragile scent rose on the soft air and he smiled as he inhaled.

            “Niphredil,” he breathed, feeling wonder fill him.   In the distance, the sound of a quiet melody reached his ears, a song that told of the wonder of the stars and of the world about them.   It murmured in all that was about him; even the wood was celebrating.

            ~I wonder what she is like? ~ he thought, a smile just touching his lips as a fingertip touched one flower’s delicate pearlescent petals.   There were many rumors flying about, quiet murmurings about the new baby.   ~I am sure she is beautiful, for her mother is the most lovely creature I have ever beheld and her father is as fair as the starlight itself, ~ he thought with a grin, thinking that description of his king quite apt.   It was then that he heard the voices.   He straightened, his black brows drawn down in a frown.   ~Why do they have to come here now?! ~ he thought, glancing about for a place to hide.   Then he gazed upward into the trees.

            A moment later four young elves dressed in fine clothing embroidered with subtle designs in silver and white entered the glade to gaze at the niphredil flowers.   They were talking quietly together, unaware that there was someone else hidden above them.

           He perched on a sturdy branch of a towering oak tree, his knees drawn to his chest, his back against the tree’s mottled grey trunk.   His grey eyes were closed, the black lashes curled on his cheeks as he listened to the excited voices that drifted up to him.   Perhaps if he couldn’t see them, then they would not see him.   He smiled slightly at this, knowing that it wasn’t true; it had not been true when he was younger either, but he still found himself closing his eyes when he didn’t wish to be seen.   He certainly didn’t want to be seen, not now and not by them.   If they knew he was here . . . .   He frowned, keeping his eyes resolutely shut, even as he thought they were all too old for such childish games.

            It seemed that there was only one topic of all the conversation in Doriath, and at first the young elf had been as happy and excited as everyone else to engage in these conversations, or at least delight in listening to them, for their king’s wife had given birth to an exquisite daughter named Luthien.   Those who had seen the child spoke of her ethereal beauty, fey and enchanting beyond even elven-kind.   Many had wandered to the place of her birth to gaze at the fair white flowers.   Niphredil they were called, and they had sprung from the earth when Luthien was born.

            That she was a special child, they all knew.   How could she not be, when her mother was the Maia Melian and her father the great elven king Elu Thingol! She was special indeed.   Luthien’s parents were preparing to have a great feast to celebrate her birth and to show the people their new princess.   All the elves of Doriath were now preparing the gifts they wanted to give the child, and it was this that troubled the young elf huddled in the oak tree.   He knew not what he could give to one so fair and wondrous and unique that would be worthy of her.

            His mother, who was a weaver and was working on a bolt of lovely blue cloth to give to the babe, had suggested that he carve something, for he was clever with his hands.   But his father was a carver, and much more skilled with the tools of his trade than his son was.

            ~What am I good at? What gift do I possess to give?  ~ he thought, opening his eyes to   gaze unhappily at the elves who were still laughing beneath him, totally unaware of his presence as they discussed the festivities that were to take place that night and the wonderful, unique gifts they would present.   ~I am good at memorizing the histories and stories that Master Angoltur has taught me.   He even said that I might be a loremaster one day. I would like that.    But I don’t think the baby would be interested in such, not yet anyway.   I could sing to her . . . . ~   He had a talent for singing and playing upon any instrument of music that came into his hand, but he was so very shy and uncertain of his talent that he seldom let anyone hear him, preferring to wander into the woods and play or sing for the trees and the stars, his music drifting on the lonely twilight air.

            ~I wish I were bolder, ~ he thought, his gaze drifting to the group beneath him.   Celeborn had joined them, his silver hair glistening in the starlight, his laughter rich and filled with delight.   ~I wish I were as bold and forthright as he, ~ the dark haired elf thought wistfully.   ~He always knows what to say, or says what he is thinking.   I could never do that.   I always seem to say the wrong thing or nothing at all. ~ He sighed slightly, his eyes moving to the sky, gazing upon the stars that shone between the oaks interlaced branches.   ~If only I could call one of them from the sky, then I would have a gift worthy of her, ~ he thought wryly.

            “Why don’t you come off your perch and join us, Daeron?”

            The elf started at the sound of his name, nearly unseating himself.   He felt the others’ eyes upon him and, biting his lip, he gazed down at them.   It had been Celeborn that had spoken.   He seemed to be aware of everything that was happening around him, and Daeron should have known that he couldn’t hide right above Celeborn’s head and expect to remain invisible.

            Knowing he must face them or flee and look more of a fool than he already did, Daeron dropped silently to the ground, his eyes downcast as his fingers twisted in the grey fabric of his tunic.

            “Spying on us again, were you, Daeron?”   Nendui asked, his eyes cool and bitter.

            “I wasn’t spying,” Daeron murmured quietly, his eyes on the ground as he felt color flood his cheeks.   He should have known this was coming.   “I was here before you arrived.   I didn’t know you would be coming here.”

            The four elves that had been here before Celeborn’s arrival exchanged glances, and Daeron hunched his shoulders uncomfortably.   He knew what they would say next, for this was the only thing they seemed capable of speaking of when he was in their presence.

            “Sneaking and spying on us, just as you did when we were children.   Telling on us when we were merely going to have fun.”

            “You could have been hurt those times that I told,” Daeron blurted as he did every time they spoke of their childhood adventures that had seemed far too dangerous to him.   He hadn’t told on them every time they planned something, only when he felt that the situation might grow too perilous.

            ~Why do I always answer them the same way?   Why does it still bother me that this is all they remember from our childhood?    We are grown now, and still they speak of this! ~

            “You were always running to tell on us, Shadow,” Naurglin remarked snidely, using the old hated nickname, as he grinned at his companions.

            “Sneaking little Shadow,” Brilost laughed, knowing by the way Daeron was staring so intently at his feet that this particular taunt still hurt as much as it had in the days when they had played together beneath the twilit trees and water falls.

            Celeborn’s hand clamped on Nendui’s shoulder, which put an abrupt end to their laughter and comments as the Sindarin prince glimpsed the pain that flashed in Daeron’s eyes. He sighed and shook his head.   They should all be old enough to lay past grievances aside, but some of them matured more slowly it seemed.

            ~But, ~ he thought with wry amusement, ~Shadow was very annoying. ~

            “It is true that Daeron was irritating when we were younger, but there are things you should be concerned with this night other than being rude.   Away with you.”

            The small group bid Celeborn farewell before turning and walking away.   They muttered in low voices, but Daeron could still hear the quiet drift of words, ‘Sneaking Shadow’ among them.

            “You shouldn’t let what they say upset you this way, Daeron.   They only do it because they know it grieves you.   It was a long time ago, and best forgotten.”

            Daeron sighed and nodded.   He knew that only too well, but he couldn’t seem to overcome this, especially when they reminded him of his over-cautiousness every time they encountered him.

            Celeborn studied him in silence for a moment, knowing that Daeron wasn’t comfortable with the subject of conversation or being reminded of how exasperating he used to be.

            ~So perhaps it is time to change it, ~ the silver haired prince of Doriath thought.

            “What gift will you be giving my fair cousin this night?” he asked, thinking that this might be a better topic to speak of.   It seemed that little else was being spoken of this night in Doriath as they all anticipated the wonderful feasting, singing, and dancing, not to mention that they would get to see their already beloved princess.

            But Daeron’s countenance only darkened, and his fingers twisted in his tunic once more.   Celeborn raised one brow in speculation before continuing.

            “It is very difficult to choose the right gift, one that is appropriate and will be remembered and cherished after the day is over.”

            Daeron frowned.   Yes, this was his dilemma, for he could not even think of a gift that *would* be forgotten after the day was over.

            Celeborn could see the dismay on his companion’s face, and a small satisfied smile touched his lips.   Perhaps this was the moment he had been waiting for, the opening that might just give this quiet elf something that he needed to overcome whatever shyness possessed him.   Daeron seemed sadly lacking in self-esteem and Celeborn meant to change this.   He too had been annoyed with Daeron when he would ‘run and tell’ their parents about their adventurous childhood escapades, but he knew now that he had only done this ‘traitorous deed’ for fear that they would injure themselves.   Celeborn’s smile widened and he shook his head.   They had been tremendously foolish at times, and he doubted not that Daeron had saved their necks many times over with his cautiousness.   It disturbed him to see Daeron so reticent, and he wondered if perhaps these childhood remembrances only made this worse.

            “If I might make a suggestion,” he began, his gaze moving from Daeron to the stars above, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his expression unreadable as the starlight glittered in his long braided silver tresses.

            “Yes, my lord?”

            Celeborn could hear the eagerness in Daeron’s voice and his smile widened.   He was pleased that his dark-haired companion would listen to this, though Celeborn wondered how the suggestion would be taken.   ~Something must be done to draw you out, ~ he thought wryly. ~We hurt you immensely when we were younger, making you doubt yourself.   And it seems that some still do, but I mean to change that. ~

            “You should sing to her,” he said simply, and then he waited.

            Daeron’s eyes widened in sudden distress.   This was Celeborn’s suggestion?   To sing for her?   It would have been hard enough to stand before the king and queen and give them something for their daughter - he would not even be able to meet their eyes let alone speak!   Yet Celeborn had suggested that he ‘sing’ to the new princess, before all of the gathered people?

            “Sing?   But . . . my lord, I . . . I couldn’t!” he stammered, though he had thought the same thing earlier.

            “I beg to differ,” Celeborn continued in an unconcerned tone.   “It was you that I heard singing the other night, was it not?”

            Daeron’s face reddened once more and he shook his head, dark hair cascading over one shoulder and obscuring his profile.

            “I did not mean for anyone to hear me,” he said apologetically as his lean fingers moved to toy with the end of one long braid.   “I am sorry.”

            “You needn’t apologize.   It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard,” Celeborn said truthfully, turning to look at this painfully shy elf.   “It moved me.”

            Daeron glanced up at him, a look of stunned surprise on his face.

            “Truly?   But . . . but how did you know it was me?”

            Pleasure washed through him, erasing the distress and dismay. There was no slyness or deceit in the silver prince’s eyes.   Had he truly meant what he had said?

            “After the song ended, I went in search of the one who had sung so powerfully with a voice that was laced with enchantment as strong as the starlight.   I saw you seated on the ground by the beech trees, hidden in the shadows beneath them, and I admit that I was surprised to see that it was you.   For a moment, I wondered if I had missed the one who had sung earlier.”   Celeborn smiled again, seeing the frown that crossed Daeron’s face.    Indeed.   Who would think one like this timid, fey youth could possess such a voice, such a gift? “Then you began to sing again, a new song I have never heard, and I knew that I had found the singer.   Where did you learn that song, Daeron?”

            “I . . . I didn’t learn it, my lord,” he stammered.   “I . . .I made it up.   It happens that way at times.   I see something beautiful and the words . . . they just seem to . . .to flood my mind and the melody seems to come from the very trees themselves.   I . . . ,” he hesitated, knowing he must sound like the fool that he often acted.   Often he said too much.   His gaze dropped to the ground once more.   Or sometimes he said nothing.

            ~He is aptly named. ~ Celeborn recollected that he had thought it an odd thing to name a child:   Daeron.   ~Shadow, ~ Celeborn thought sadly.   ~He doesn’t want to be seen or heard.   Perhaps I might change this tonight. His voice can be the star that pierces the cloud that covers him and blazes forth to light the skies. ~  

            “I am amazed then.   You have many gifts that we know nothing of,” he smiled and tilted Daeron’s face up with one finger set firmly beneath the other’s chin.   “Sing for her.   Use your gift and perhaps you will see for yourself what it is worth.   When you sing you give something of yourself, a part of who you are.   Sing for Luthien, Daeron.   It will be the best gift you could give to her.”

            Daeron’s eyes met the prince’s for a moment, and then he slowly nodded as he considered what had been said.   He would try, holding Celeborn’s kind words in his heart to bolster his courage, which would flee before he ever managed to choke out the first note.

            “Thank you, my lord,” he whispered, a melody already surging in his blood as he his thoughts turned to the baby princess that he had not seen yet, his eyes on the fallen stars of Niphredil.   “I will give her a song.”

~*~*~*~*~*

            That night Daeron waited with his mother and father to be called forward to present their gifts to the baby.   There was such a crowd of happy people that he still had not seen even a glimpse of the babe.   His heart pounded in his chest and he swallowed, his throat gone dry with fear.   Would he be able to get the song out past his anxiety, or would he stand mute and ridiculous, wrapped in silence and humiliation?   He watched as everyone moved forward to greet their king and queen, smiling at the baby and giving their magnificent gifts, receiving smiles and nods from their well-loved rulers.

            Thingol and Melian did look most regal this night, clothed in shimmering garments and glittering jewels, the stars above making a fitting crown for them.

            ~I cannot do this, ~ Daeron thought, lifting his eyes to gaze upon them once more, noting how the king’s hair shone so silver and the queen’s as dark as the sky.   Multi-hued jewels glittered in the dark cloud of her hair like twinkling stars; her eyes were luminous and filled with such wisdom and knowledge that Daeron marveled anew that one of the Maiar would take on such a humble form for the one her heart had been captured by.   Suddenly distress filled him once more.

            ~And to think that I would sing to her daughter!   She who taught the nightingales to sing! She who could weave a web of silence in far off Valinor when she sang!   I cannot do this!    How could I dare to sing before her?! ~

            As though she had sensed his thoughts, Melian turned to gaze at him even though he thought he stood hidden behind all the others that were bringing their gifts to Luthien.   He felt captured by her, the light that shone in her eyes so ageless and vast that he felt overwhelmed.   She looked at him curiously, seeing things that might come to be.   She felt a fleeting fear, and she shook her head.   Slowly she released him, wondering what magic would be spun this night that would entrap this shadowy youth in a struggle with fate.   Yet her fear had not been for him alone, but for her daughter who lay drowsing in her arms, her face content beneath the black curls on her brow.   Melian smiled gently, one finger tenderly brushing Luthien’s rosy cheek.

            ~You are not even aware of what is going on, are you, sweetling? ~

            Daeron felt himself go limp with relief when he was released from Melian’s otherworldly gaze, but when at last he moved to stand before them he found that his fear had returned in full measure, and he gazed steadfastly at the ground as his parents presented their offerings.   He barely heard the quiet words spoken by Maedheryn and Menelmathron, words of wonder and praise for the princess.   Yet the silence that followed seemed loud indeed.   He found that his parents were looking to him as were Thingol and Melian.   His eyes widened slightly and he wanted to flee, but he looked to Celeborn who was standing off to one side, smiling at him encouragingly.   He drew a breath, hearing behind him, somewhere in the crowd the whispered words of “Sneaking Shadow”.

            ~I am more than a shadow, ~ he thought, standing tall and straight, his long hands smoothing down his tunic of muted blue.   He moved forward only a few steps, just enough   so that he could see the babe’s clear eyes which glittered as brightly as the stars themselves.   He gasped in amazement, her beauty capturing him.   She was unique, and he knew at that moment she had captured his heart as surely as Thingol’s had been captured by his enchanting Maia.   It seemed as though there were only the two of them here beneath the trees and the stars.   He did not see the tears that shimmered in Melian’s eyes as sad fate was woven that night in Doriath, a sad fate that awaited both her child and this shy young elf.

            ~Yet some things are meant to be, ~ she thought sorrowfully, knowing that Eru, in his wisdom, shaped the music of their lives.   Her eyes lifted to the young elf’s mother, and she saw the same sorrow in Menelmathron’s eyes as well.   ~A mother’s knowledge is often hard to bear, ~ she thought, as the elven weaver felt the Maia’s gaze and looked up at her, a shared moment of silence exchanged.  

            Daeron smiled down at Luthien, not daring to move any closer, but he gazed steadfastly at her exquisite face, unaware of the other eyes that were upon him.

            “I will sing for you,” he said quietly, a new melody rushing through him, new words blossoming in his mind and soul.   The song he had prepared was forgotten, as it was not fitting for one such as she, now that he had seen her.   Few songs could tell of her beauty and her innocence, the light that lived in her, the light of her spirit.   He would strive his entire life to be able to capture what she was with his words and the music that danced in his soul.   Little did he know what soft enchantment he now wove about himself was one he would never escape.   Softly, he began to sing.

            Thingol stared at the dark-haired son of Maedheryn and Menelmathron with wonder as Daeron’s voice slowly filled the air. The song began in a low tone and was barely discernable from the low contented murmurings of the trees, but then it grew bolder and soon all could hear the first song he crafted for Luthien.    Surely this was not the shy youth that had hidden behind the curtain when Thingol had entered Angoltur’s study on one of his visits to the Loremaster of Doriath?   He had been nothing but a shadow then, half hidden from the king’s gaze.   Yet now he stood here before them all, singing with a voice that would enthrall even the Valar.   Melian’s nightingales, some perched on the branches about them, some resting on the back of her chair, stared intently at the singer, bright eyes glittering in the light of the stars and the silver and blue lamps hanging in the boughs of the trees.  

            The words seemed perfectly crafted and Thingol wondered how long it had taken this shy youth to invent them.   Or had someone else written them and this youth merely sang something he had memorized?   Even so, he had never heard anything so powerful, else it was his wife’s singing.   He would have to ask Angoltur about this later.   If that youth had indeed written that song. . . . Thingol smiled.

            Daeron, who was unaware of everything about him but Luthien, sang to the baby, a smile on his lips.   Delight and happiness rang through him as he watched Luthien wriggle with pleasure, her small chubby feet kicking as though she wanted to dance to the song he sang.   He had never felt such happiness before in his life!  

            ~This is what I want to do, ~ he thought as his song ended.   ~I want to make music for you, fair Luthien. ~   Then the baby smiled at him, her luminous eyes bright and lovely as the stars that shone above them, and Daeron’s answering smile glowed with all that was in his newly awakened heart.

            Silence filled the air, and then the sharp noise of applause filled the glade.   Daeron started, recalling where he was.   His eyes darted fearfully to the king and queen, his fingers knotting on his tunic as he bowed and stepped away.   He felt Maedheryn’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently.   Daeron turned and saw the pride shining in his father’s grey eyes.   As they moved back into the crowd, he turned to his mother.   She smiled at him, but there was a shadow in her own eyes and for a moment he faltered.   Perhaps he had not done as well as he had thought.   Then she smiled and embraced him, and when she gazed at him again the shadow was gone.   He grinned, amazed at how many of the people were smiling at him, and complimenting him on his gift, even the four who had tormented him for so long gave him begrudging nods of acknowledgement.   He had never felt like this, like he belonged, as though he had found his place in the world.

            Daeron’s eyes sought out Prince Celeborn, and when the silver haired elf turned to him with a smile of congratulations on his lips, Daeron mouthed, “Thank you.”   Celeborn tipped his head and grinned.

            Later that night, as Daeron lay in on a pile of beech leaves with contentment and happiness still lingering, he thought back on all that had happened.   This night had been better than he could have imagined.   He recalled the king’s glance, so filled with wonder and speculation, and the applause of the people, but mostly he remembered Luthien’s smile and bright eyes.

            ~Some day I will write music for you to dance to, little Luthien.   Will you dance for me? ~

            With these happy thoughts, he drifted into contented sleep, thinking that one day she might dance for him if his music was good enough.

TBC

Chapter 3 – The Gift

            “What happened to the elven princess?” Dunie asked with the ingenuous curiosity of the young as the tale came to an end.   She smiled at Daeron as he turned to look at her.   It was an innocent question by a mortal child who could not possibly know that the answer would cause him pain.   None of them were aware of the sadness in that tale, or the shadow that still hovered over his heart.   He was indeed a gifted storyteller; they did not know it was himself that he had spoken of.   How could they know?   He had done his job exceedingly well.   He always had, hiding his feelings behind his gift whenever necessary as he had done today.   “Did she dance for him?”

            “She grew into a very beautiful maiden, her hair falling about her like twilight shadows as she would dance upon the grass with such grace and joy that the stars themselves would weep to watch her. She . . . she fell in love with a Man, who saw her dancing under the stars one night.”

            Vaya’s face lit with pleasure at the pronouncement, being young and rather a ‘romantic’ herself though she might deny it.

            “Oh!   How lovely!” she sighed, gazing at Daeron, unaware of his true feelings about this lovely, romantic tale.   “I am so happy for her!”

            “What happened to the elf who sang to her?” Niphredil asked, remembering how happy the beautiful elven baby was when the shy young elf had sung his song.   “Why didn’t she fall in love with him?”

            Daeron’s brows knit as he thought of the quiet, gifted young elf growing to adulthood, his gift shaped and honed by the love he had borne for the elven princess, the one person whom he had loved more than life itself and always knew in his heart had never been meant for him.   Why indeed.

            “He . . . he grew up as well . . . singing and playing for her whenever she desired to hear his music.   He always loved her, wanting nothing more than to make her happy and be near her.”

            Daeron bit at his lip, unable to answer Niphredil’s second question, and he felt a swell of bitterness and sorrow rise within him at the answer to the first.   He had wanted her happiness until it meant that she could only find it with Beren.   It had hurt him to realize that though he had given everything he had to her, everything he was, it had not been enough to capture her untamed heart.   It had taken another to do that, another who was not even of their kind, another who had come to her ragged and torn, even as Daeron was now.   ~Would she look at me in pity now?   I wonder . . . . But no, ~ he told himself, ~it had not been pity for Barahir’s son that had moved her. ~

            The ache of loneliness that was his familiar friend nearly overwhelmed him.   This was why he had allowed these mortal children to ‘find’ him.   He had needed to hear other voices than his own; see other visages than the one that stared back at him from the water when he washed his face.   Even if they were not his kin, and though they could never understand who or what he was, he needed them.   He needed these mortals that ruled all the lands now.  

            A small self-mocking smile touched his lips as he thought of this grand irony of his life.   A mortal had taken from him the one thing that had mattered, leaving him lost and alone when she was gone and now the thing he needed most was their company, the companionship of mortals, to ease this vast solitude that threatened to undo him.   He could never leave Arda.   That was his curse.   He would never feel content in Valinor, and so he stayed, watching his own kind slowly vanishing, fading, or leaving these shores forever.   Indeed they were the Forgotten People now, and he was the last.

           He felt the children’s eyes upon him, and Daeron realized that he had been staring intently at the gentle blue swell of the Sea, not the western sea that haunted his thoughts, but a smaller inland one far to the east, far from what had been his home.   He had no home now; he was indeed a wanderer in the shadows.   His smile softened when he felt the gentle touch of Niphredil’s small fingers on his cheek.   He reached down and clasped her fingers in his for a moment.   An ephemeral touch, yet it was what he had always yearned for: someone who could see him beyond the gift, someone who could see what he was in himself.   Even if it lasted for a mere moment of time, someone had seen ‘him’ and dared to touch him.

            “Will you sing for me?” Niphredil asked.   “I will dance for you if you do.   Please, Daeron.   I want to dance for you.”

            The child didn’t understand the look that crossed The Singer’s face.   She could not know how those very words affected him.   She would dance ‘for him’.   She would do it to please him.   He felt a rush of hot tears, wondering how this mortal child could say such simple words and move him so.

            “I am a good dancer,” the girl continued when he hesitated.   “Watch me!”   She slid from his lap and ran across the sun-washed sand.   Then she began to move, not with the grace of Luthien, for none had her grace, but with the enthusiastic charm of a child,   exuberant and joyful.   She spun and dipped, a smile on her face, her eyes ever on the tall Singer to make certain that he saw her, that he saw her dance for him.

            Vaya pulled Dunie to her feet and they joined Niphredil in the dance.   Giggling, the twins leapt to their feet and were soon leaping and twirling about the three girls.   Only Lothar and Shai remained seated with Daeron.

            “Sing for us, Daeron,” Niphredil called as she spun about, the sun captured in her shadowy locks.   “Sing for us!”

            Daeron watched the children who danced a few feet away from the edge of the water, the sigh of the sea and the cry of the gulls the only music they truly needed.   He wanted to sing for this child who was dancing to please him, but he felt that if he did his voice would fail him.   For though her words were a balm for his grieving soul, it sharply reminded him of the one whom he had wanted to hear say those words so long ago.     Once, when they had been younger, she had danced for him, all grace and beauty as she moved over the grass to his music.   But that had all changed when Beren had arrived in Doriath and stolen her heart away from Daeron, though in truth she had never been his.

            “I will play for you instead,” he called softly, moving to his bag and taking out a wooden box. Inside was a small flute of polished wood.   He tenderly removed it from the protective cloth that was wrapped about it, moved to sit upon the sand and, drawing his knees to his chest, he began to play.

            As the first notes filled the salt-tinged air, the children turned to him, mesmerized by the song, for it sounded as though someone’s heart had been broken beyond repair.   Their eyes filled with sudden tears and true sorrow touched them for the first time in their young lives, though they knew not why this should be.   Then The Singer’s silvery eyes looked upon them with pity, and the tune changed to a lighthearted melody perfectly suited for children to dance to.

            They were delighted with this, their sadness lifting like a veil and vanishing like smoke on the wind as the new song filled them.   Soon Lothar and even Shai had joined in the merriment.   For a time, all was forgotten but the tune of Daeron’s making and the children’s movement on the sand.   Then at last the notes died away, carried by the slight breeze across the sea, and silence fell.

            As the day was later than they had supposed, they all bid The Singer farewell with the promise to come and see him on the morrow to listen to more stories and hear more music. They had invited him to come and celebrate Niphredil’s birthday with them, for their parents would surely want to meet The Singer, to see that he was no ghost or demon.    Daeron merely smiled at them and waved as they slowly disappeared, heading for their homes.   As he turned from replacing his flute, he heard someone running toward him.   It was Niphredil.   She threw her arms about his legs and hugged him.   He was startled by the embrace, but bent to hug her back quickly.

            “Thank you for the story and the music, Daeron,” she said, her eyes shining.

            “Thank you,” he said quietly and smiled at her, knowing that she could not know what gift she had given to him.   It was then that he decided what he wanted to do for this special child.   He moved to his pack and rummaged in it, drawing out at last a square of silk the color of faded pale violets.   He moved back to Niphredil and handed it to her.   “Happy birthday,” he murmured, feeling a contentedness in his heart knowing that she at least would treasure this gift, though the one he had intended it for had never known about it.

            Niphredil opened the square of silk and gasped.   Inside was a white gem hung on a delicate silver chain; the gem, a pale white stone, seemed to glow slightly, as though a small star burned in its heart.   She had never seen anything so lovely and alluring before in her life.

            “It’s for me?” she asked, staring up at him with disbelieving eyes.

            “Yes.   I want you to have it.   It will help you to remember me.”

            “I won’t ever forget you, Daeron,” she promised with a childlike solemnity as he gently fastened it about her neck.   “It looks like something a princess would wear,” she breathed, plucking the gem from where it lay on her chest to gaze at it in wonder.

            “Yes,” Daeron agreed softly, “something for a princess, but it is yours now.”

            The child flung her arms about him once more, and her sparkling, happy eyes filled him with joy, an emotion so new that he wondered if he had ever felt it before.

            When at last she had vanished from his sight, he sighed.   Slowly he bent, making certain that his belongings were safely tucked in his pack.   He took out the box that contained his fishhooks and placed the one from the rod in the box.   He removed the string as well, wrapping it about the small ball of string that he kept, placing it in the pack with the box.   Then he swiftly laced the bag’s ties and took up his cloak, shaking the sand from it before putting it on. He tied the long leather laces of his sandals together and hung them about his neck.   Bending, he picked up his pack, slinging it over his chest and one shoulder, tucking the fishing pole behind it and securing it.   He took up his staff and then stood, staring at the image of the footprints in the sand where the children had danced to his music.

            Tomorrow they would return, if their parents would allow it, for he wondered what they would make of the story of The Singer that had told them a tale and played a flute for them to dance to.   If they returned, with some adults in tow no doubt, they would find no trace of him but the ashes of his fire and the hollow of his bed.   It was time to move on.   Time to tell them that he would not be here tomorrow.

            His loneliness had abated for now, and he had enjoyed the time spent with these mortal children this day, but he had no desire to linger.   He drew a deep breath, his eyes moving to the sparkling waters of the sea.   Far out, he could see the small white boats the villagers used while plying their trade, and yes . . . .   It was time to go.

            He lifted his hand in farewell and turned to move in the opposite direction.   He began to sing.

            The children heard the voice dimly, and turned.   The villagers, hearing it as well, stopped their work to listen to the dulcet, magic-filled tones, marveling that they could hear it in the light of day since they had heard it only in the twilight hours before, and their hearts lifted in their breasts as though they had touched something enchanted.   But Niphredil’s bottom lip quivered and fat tears spilled over her rosy cheeks, for she knew that the song was one of farewell.   He was leaving.

            “Good-bye, Daeron,” she whispered, for her emotions were too strong for words; yet in her heart of hearts she had known that he would leave.   “Good-bye!”   It was Shai that picked her up, holding her comfortingly in his arms as she cried; it was he that noticed that she clutched at a necklace which rested about her slim throat, and the stone that shone pure radiant white as though a star rested there.

            The tall Singer walked at the water’s edge knowing that his parting gift had been heard; received with relief by some, for they liked not the strange feeling of magic that accompanied that ethereal voice, and sorrow by others, who knew how a part of them would feel empty once the song was done. Daeron smiled as he sang.   The water of the Sea of Rhun washed over his feet, gently erasing his prints as he headed south.   It was as if he had never been there, but for the memory of his voice that lingered in the villagers’ hearts.

 The End