Disclaimer: The characters are not mine.

As always, many thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Rated: PG 13

A story set somewhere in the East of Middle-earth circa 2979 T.A.

Love Unrequited

   Aragorn froze. A sudden movement had caught his eye. Something, or someone, had slipped behind the rock up ahead of him. It might have been nothing more sinister than a small antelope or a goat or any number of the strange and bizarre animals that inhabited these far lands.

   But he would take no chances.

   Slowly, imperceptibly, his hand crept towards the hilt of his sword. Of late, even in slumber, he never unstrapped its sheath from his waist. Since travelling this far into the East, he could never be sure when the next attempt to sever his head from his body was likely to occur. But it troubled him that someone, anyone, could be lurking this near his camp. He believed himself to be in as remote a spot as it was possible to be; there was no habitation for leagues around. He had trawled the country thoroughly; even Sauron’s spies, he had learned, did not come to this desolate place.

   He was heading South, venturing into even more dangerous and inhospitable lands. A battle, with the possibility of injury, so far from help was something he could do without. He eased his sword silently from its sheath, and kept the blade low, mindful to prevent the early morning sun from finding its honed surface and giving him away with its bright shimmer. He clenched his jaw and reluctantly set his mind to battle, while under his breath, he cursed his misfortune that one might be needed at all.

   He did not need this distraction. Already he was weary of his mission and longed only to complete it swiftly so that he might return home the sooner. Whilst living in Gondor, the camaraderie he had enjoyed with his fellow soldiers had blunted his homesickness, but here, alone in such a hostile place where his very survival was a constant, endless battle, his yearning for the North grew with every step that took him further from those whom he loved.  Even in sleep, it seemed, he thought only of his home as the previous night his dreams had been filled with the sweetest and yet the most sorrowful Elven music he had ever heard. Oh what he would give for an evening in the Hall of Fire at this moment.

   But he could hear no music now. He strained his ears, but there was no sound to be heard. There was not even any wind, only a vast barren emptiness, seemingly devoid of all life. But something was out there and the longer he waited, the more he felt certain it was not a beast. As the minutes ticked by, his sword now firmly in his hand, he risked a slight movement. Nothing happened; no arrow came whistling unseen to pierce him. He watched and waited a little longer; keen eyes missing nothing. Time passed. The sun had risen fully above the horizon. He desperately wanted to be on his way. He began to wonder if perhaps he had been on his own for too long and was only jumping at shadows.

   Suddenly, a stone fell from the rock face before him, clattering noisily. He flinched as the sound shattered the silence. But there was no further movement and the eerie silence was soon resumed. Still he waited until at last his nerves were raw and he could bear the suspense no longer. Blood surging, he leapt from his hiding place and sprang swiftly up the side of the hill towards the source of the falling stone. Rocks moved noisily under his feet. Heedless, he charged forward, determined that whatever or whoever was out there would rue incurring his ire.

  Ahead, he suddenly spotted a flash of grey as a tall, cloaked figure slid into the crevice formed by two large boulders. There could be no doubt now, someone sought to conceal his presence in the rocks above. But the intruder’s efforts were doomed. Aragorn was not the great hunter he had become through sloth and tardiness. Too late, the figure tried to evade him and, as lightning, Aragorn was before the crack, and into the narrow space he plunged. A fell light, keen and deadly, blazed in his eyes as he confronted his prey.  The man raised no weapon yet, in an instant, Aragorn dragged him from his hiding place and slammed him against the rock, his sword perilously close to his prisoner’s throat.

   “Name yourself and your business,” he cried loudly in Westron. He doubted the man would understand his words, but he had long ago learned that if you know not the tongue of your opponent, your own speech, imparted forcefully and loudly, often brought about the required result. 

   The figure stood motionless, his hands were raised, covering much of his face, yet deep grey eyes regarded Aragorn with a loathing of an intensity the ranger had never witnessed before, not even in this desolate land where few would ever call him friend.

   Shocked by the depth of the malice directed towards him, Aragorn stepped back a pace though his sword never wavered. Slowly the man lowered his hands. His chiselled face was surprisingly fair to look upon, fairer than any man Aragorn had seen in a long time, in fact not since leaving his home in Imladris. Almost idly he wondered…but, no, it could not be; the thought was preposterous. Aragorn’s eyes were fixed on the unyielding stare of his prisoner, but the idle thought remained and he briefly permitted his gaze to stray a fraction to one side so that he could see the ears of this man, all the while telling himself it was utterly ridiculous to even consider the possibility that this could be an... an Elf? But there, just visible, protruding beneath the long dark hair was the delicate tip of a pointed ear. Aragorn gasped and stated the obvious.

   “You are an Elf!”

   A sly grin beneath the cold eyes was the only reply he received.

   Suddenly Aragorn was at a loss as to how to proceed. He had never in all his life considered the possibility that he would ever encounter an Elf who would be so obviously hostile towards him. He studied his captive more closely, all the while very aware of those piercing eyes trained upon him. The Elf bore little resemblance to any of the Noldor of his acquaintance. And he was certainly not an Exile. Even after their long Ages in Middle-earth, those who had seen the light of the Blessed Realm never lost the image of that light in their eyes. The eyes of this Elf were filled only with darkness.

   “Who are you?” Aragorn asked, beginning to feel irked by the Elf’s intense gaze and reluctance to speak. Not for a moment did he feel he could relax his stance against this must unlikely stranger.

   His request was met with a continued stony silence. Aragorn hardened his tone.

   “Speak, or you will feel the bite of my sword.” His voice was purposefully strong and masterful. Miscreant soldiers under his command had quailed at softer words than these.

   Again the Elf smiled, but the implied malice was evident. And then, to Aragorn’s surprise, he did speak. His voice was filled with scorn and contempt, his words spoken in halting Westron, yet still its lyrical beauty was as music to Aragorn’s deprived ears.

   “Why would I answer to you, worthless Secondborn Child?” Almost spitting his words he added: “Men! Created in the image of Morgoth, all of you. Kill me if you must. It would be a merciful release. I care not.”

   Without warning, the Elf abruptly pushed passed him and Aragorn was left stunned and impotent. He knew he could not possibly carry out his threat to actually slay this Elf, no matter how infuriating he found him. He had not committed any crime that would hold the charge. But he could not allow him to simply vanish into the Wilderness either. He raced after him and spun him around by his shoulders.

  “If you have weapons upon your person I would take them now,” he said in his most authoritative Captain of Gondor voice.

   He quickly flung back the Elf’s cloak as he was sure he had felt the sheath of a sword beneath the worn fabric, but all the movement revealed was a lyre, an exquisitely beautiful, delicate lyre at that. It was not unlike those he had seen played in the Hall of Fire.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked as his soldier’s eyes simultaneously scanned the Elf’s torso searching for signs of weaponry. He appeared to have none.

   The Elf shook himself free, bristling with indignation.  “What is it to you? It is mine; that should be all your concern, nothing more.”

   “Perhaps, but I would still like to know.” Aragorn held the Elf’s gaze for a moment, desperately trying to find some clue as do how he might bridge the chasm of suspicion that gapped between them. He tried again and made a great effort to speak calmly, almost conversationally.

   “The lyre appears to be an instrument such as the Sindar might have made. Could it be that you are an Elf from Lothlórien or perhaps even from Mirkwood?” There was barely a flicker of interest on the Elf’s face. Aragorn persevered. “I have heard it told that the Teleri did not call themselves the Lindar without good reason. I think perhaps only one of their kind would esteem an instrument such as this as highly as you would appear to.”

   Anger flashed in the Elf’s eyes at this presumption. Aragorn pushed his luck. “I might be wrong, of course. Perhaps you are neither Sindar nor Silvan. Might it be that you be an Avari perchance?”

   “I am no spineless Avari,” roared the Elf. “How dare you even suggest such a thing?”

   Aragorn, pleased at having generated some reaction on the Elf’s part, replied: “Well, if you will not introduce yourself, what am I to conclude.” A most reasonable deduction he thought rather smugly. “Will you not at least allow me to know who you hold as your lord if you will not tell me your name?”

   He had clearly piqued the Elf sufficiently to elicit a reply. “I have no lord, nor have I had one these last two Ages, but if I were to count any it would be Thingol Elu, long though has he been gone.”

   Surprised, Aragorn contemplated this revealing remark for a moment. So the Elf was originally from Doriath. But he found it odd that he would not claim allegiance to any of the Elvish realms that remained in Middle-earth. To his knowledge, following the breaking of Beleriand, those Sindar formerly from that realm happily acknowledged their new lords, be they Círdan, Galadriel, Elrond or Thranduil. Yet this Elf appeared to hold no allegiance to any of these.

   By now Aragorn was beginning to realise that his captive posed no real threat to him in spite of his hostility and that he really ought to let him go and be on his own way. He sheathed his sword, but he was too intrigued to pass up this opportunity to learn more about this strange traveller. For one thing, he thought with an inner smile, it would make quite a tale to tell in the Hall of Fire on his return home.

  Noticing the gauntness of the Elf’s face and the loose fit of his ragged clothing, he tried a different ploy and asked: “Are you hungry?” By the look of him the Elf was surely half starved. “I have only a little food but you are welcome to share it.”

   The Elf looked at him long and hard, as if taking an interest in his captor for the first time. “You are not a man from these parts, I deem. You have more the look about you of what men here call Tarks, a man from Gondor.”

   Encouraged by this sudden relaxing of the Elf’s stance, Aragorn smiled. “My name is Thorongil. I have been in the service of the Steward for a number of years now, but I hail originally from the North.”

   “I have been to the North, and beyond, but not for a very long time,” said the Elf. The depth of sadness in the Elf’s voice was unexpected. But then his tone changed and became hard and proud as he said: “I accept nothing from the hand of any Man.”

   “Well, that is a pity,” said Aragorn, stepping back down the slope to retrieve his pack. “Here I have some succulent fruit and fresh meat. If you will not accept it as a gift, you can always earn it.”

   The Elf’s eyes narrowed in question.

   Aragorn nodded his head towards the lyre. “I would dearly love to hear you play. I am a long way from my home and I greatly miss the sound of music.” Something in the man’s voice must have conveyed his honesty and touched the heart of even this defeated Elf for, without warning, he sat on the ground and, positioning his lyre, he began to play.

   Immediately the sweetest notes filled the morning air and drifted into the sky. Aragorn was astonished; it was the very music he had heard in his dreams the night before. The delicious sound held him utterly entranced. The exquisite chords held great power and very swiftly the notes began to consume him and he became totally wrapped in their melodious beauty and, as he listened, he was transported to another realm and another time and yet the tune, he knew, held great meaning for him in his own life. And then the Elf began to sing and it was unlike any song Aragorn had ever heard before yet he knew at once that it was a song of lost love and, as he listened, he felt his own heart filling within him and the song of longing was of his longing and the Elf’s pain was his pain. On and on the minstrel played; there seemed no end to the sounds he could weave as his long, skeletal fingers expertly plucked the strings to perfection.

   At length the Elf stopped and put down his lyre. He cast his eyes to the ground and did not speak. Aragorn watched him, unsure of what to say. Eventually, he asked the only question there could be.

   “Who was she?”

   The Elf looked up and their eyes met and much of the Elf’s hostility had passed. It was replaced by a look of the deepest grief Aragorn had ever seen on any face, be it Elf or Man.

   “She was the fairest maiden who ever graced the face of Arda,” said the Elf in a quiet voice, leaden with the weight of his sorrow.

   Aragorn choked down his own emotions which had risen alarmingly as he listened to the music and smiled a brief smile of sympathy. “I have come to learn that every man there is believes his beloved to be the fairest in the world. I myself am no exception.”

   The Elf looked him straight in the eye and said. “Then they are fools and you no less so. The lady of whom I speak was the daughter of a king, not some man’s mate whose spawn my lord would not even take into his service. No, Man of Gondor, none will ever walk in her likeness again.”

   Aragorn opened his pack and took out the last of his food. He divided the fruit and cut into two equal portions the remnant of whatever the small, rat-like creature was that he had caught yesterday. 

   “Here, you earned this well,” he said as he handed half to the Elf. “But will you not tell me what became of her?”

   “What interest would that be to you, a Man?”

   “You seem to have a very low opinion of men, my friend. We do not all hold to the values of those in the service of Sauron. There are good men among us who stand against his rule and his dominion.”

   The Elf tore at the meat and ate greedily. Aragorn had been right, he was hungry. He watched him in silence. The Elf had eaten most of his meal before he spoke again. “I have wandered alone through out all the dark places of these lands for a very long time. I know what Men do.”

   “If that is so then you must also know of the deeds of those who oppose Sauron.”

   “I have heard tell that the Men of Gondor fight well enough in battle,” the Elf conceded. “But Men with their brief lives and impetuousness have ever brought ruin to my Kindred. I keep apart. It is better that way.”

   Aragorn pondered this for a moment. Dredging his memory, he recalled the alliances of Elves and Men throughout the last three Ages and wondered at what precisely the Elf was referring to. The Easterlings had only ever allied themselves with the Eldarin the distance past and most of those alliances had certainly proved treacherous, but surely the Edain had always been faithful. There was, though, no denying that even they had, albeit unwittingly, played a major part in the downfall of three great Elven realms in the First Age. With a sigh, Aragorn decided that perhaps there would be little point in reminding this Elf of some of the many, more heroic, deeds performed by Men since then.

   But none of this explained why the Elf wandered alone as he did. Aragorn wondered if his exile was self imposed or a punishment of some description.

  Then a most unwelcome thought entered his head. Surely Arwen was the fairest Elf maiden there was. He was quite certain this was not just infatuation on his part, since everyone at Imladris spoke of her thus. Could it be possible that this daughter of a king of whom the Elf spoke was actually his own Arwen? Elrond might have chosen not to use the title of king as there were too few of the Noldor remaining to warrant it, in much the same way his own line no longer used the title King of Arthedain, but Elrond was a mighty Elf-lord and as a king might he seem to any who pursued his daughter.

   “So you keep apart from Men,” Aragorn said lightly, unable to directly ask the question now burning inside him, “but might I ask why you remain apart from your own kin?”

   But the Elf said nothing so Aragorn also ate his breakfast in silence while his thoughts raced away with him. He very much wanted to unravel this mystery and discover the secrets which surely darkened the stranger’s past, but he was unsure of how to proceed. He doubted the Elf would choose to reveal them lightly and one misjudged question from him would see the Elf retreating into silence permanently.

   Finally, Aragorn decided to deploy a tactic he had learned as a military tactician. By displaying trust on his part, an interrogator might gamble that a similar feeling may be engendered within the prisoner. He decided to risk telling the stranger something of his own story.

    “I too hold the daughter of a great Elf-lord in my heart,” he said. The Elf looked at him in utter disbelief but immediately Aragorn could sense his interest. “Her face is the fairest I have ever beheld, even for one of her kind. Her hair is long and dark, almost black, and it shines as a river of silver in the twilight. Her skin is as soft as the petals of a rosebud and when she dances she fills every strand of my being with the purest joy I have ever known.”

    The Elf stared at him incredulously for a moment, but then a distant look appeared in his eyes and Aragorn guessed he had ceased to listen and was instead walking in his own memories.

   “None has ever moved as gracefully as my beloved,” he said at last, “not in all the long history of Arda though two long Ages have passed since she was lost.”

    Very quickly, Aragorn surmised from this statement that it could not possibly have been Arwen whom the Elf so desired. His relief was almost tangible

   But as the Elf’s head bowed to his knees, his despair became very evident and when Aragorn spoke again, he was gentle. “You seem very sure of this, my friend,” he said. “You may believe your lady to be the fairest to walk this earth, but mine is held by her people to be the image of Lúthien herself.”

   The Elf’s head shot up and he stared at Aragorn in amazement. For the first time, his expression was completely unguarded and Aragorn was shocked to see the depth of the pain and sorrow in his eyes. But he was certain he had seen something else haunting him too. He only had a moment before the Elf quickly regained his composure and his face once again became a mask with the same veiled expression as before, but Aragorn had read guilt in the eyes of enough men to recognise it now in the Elf’s.

    And for all his feigned indifference, the Elf evidently could not completely deny his desire to learn more about this revelation on the part of his captor.

   “Am I right in assuming that you, a mortal Man, have claimed the hand of an Elf maiden?” Aragorn expected him to be scornful and disbelieving, but he was not. His interest was genuine. But Aragorn, wary of how to answer this particular question, proceeded with caution.

   “It would be wrong of me to say I have claimed her,” he said carefully. If he was going to succeed in using this line of conversation to prise information from the Elf, he did not want to appear simply an infatuated fool, though, and his stomach turned over at the thought, that was probably all, in truth, that he actually was.

   “She cares for me, of that much I am certain,” he said before evading the issue by adding, “but the matter of whether we might wed has not yet arisen; I fear her father may be reluctant to permit it.” In that he felt he was being quite truthful.

   The Elf looked totally incredulous at this statement. “Her father is an Elf-lord, you say, and yet he has not had you put to death for your presumption?”

   “No, of course not,” replied Aragorn. “Why ever would he have done that?”

   The Elf sighed. “The world has indeed changed,” he said, shaking his head. “But you are, nonetheless, banished into the wilderness, are you not? No man of Gondor, or wherever you hail from, would live in these barren lands by choice.”

   “I have a mission to accomplish and then I shall return,” said Aragorn.

   “Ah, now I understand,” said the Elf with a certain grim satisfaction. “Perhaps the world has not changed so much after all. And do you believe you will complete your mission?”

   “Yes, I think so. Another year, no more, and I shall be on my way home to see my Undómiel again.”

   “Then you are very blessed,” said the Elf. “I shall never see my beloved ever again.”

   “How is this so?” asked Aragorn. “If she has departed these shores, can you not take ship to be reunited with her?”

   The Elf suddenly had the look about him of an empty shell, as if all his inner self had been spent on the desire that burned within him that could never be. He sounded utterly desolate as he replied in a broken voice: “My love has taken a path I can not follow, not ever, not even unto the very end of Arda. Can you imagine what that means?”

   Aragorn was not entirely sure he could. He was still young, the long life of his forefathers before him, his final destiny not something that had ever troubled him greatly. There had been one or two close brushes with death when he had been injured, but the fretting about whether or not he would recover had been done by others, not by himself. In the back of his mind, he knew that ultimately his Elven family would depart to a different place from he, and there might yet be complications should Arwen ever be his, but such matters were far too distant to concern a young man in the prime of his life.

   When Aragorn did not answer, the Elf continued. “Well, let me tell you, mortal man, precisely the pain you will feel if the lady of your desire does not grant you her favour but instead gives her heart to one who will lead her to a different fate from yours.”

   The Elf paused for a moment, his sorrow now etched even more deeply upon to his face. “Never again will you hear the music of her laughter. Never will your eyes enjoy the delights of her form as she dances for you beneath the trees. Never will you see the moonlight in her hair or the sun break upon her face in the radiance of her smile. Never will your body know the sweet pleasure of merging your flesh with hers. No, mortal man, always will you be sundered from her and no road can ever bring you to her door, and worse, oh so much worse, you will endure for an eternity, it matters not where, within or beyond the Circles of the world, but an eternity it will be nonetheless, the knowledge that another enjoys the delights that should have been yours. Mark my words and heed them for that will be your fate if your love spurns you and you fail to claim her.” As the Elf finished talking, there were tears in his eyes. “She is lost to me,” he said, his voice a mournful sob. “A mortal man she took in my stead and none of my People will ever see her dance in the twilight ever again.

   Aragorn was moved to pity by the anguish imparted by the Elf’s words, and as he listened, he also felt a cold shadow creeping over his own heart. He had clearly not given sufficient thought as to what might become of his love if he failed to claim Arwen as his own. With his youthful optimism, he had always allowed hope to bolster him in his moments of doubt. Foolishly, he had never dwelt overly on the possibility of being sundered from her for ever more and it had most certainly never remotely occurred to him that Arwen might yet choose another in his absence.

    Both thoughts were utterly unbearable.

   Aragorn looked into the Elf’s eyes and it was as if a veil had been lifted between them and suddenly they could read each other’s pain and then at last he understood. This Elf had truly loved the fairest of all Elf-maidens, his own foremother no less, long ago when the World was still young. But she had not returned his love, instead she had given her heart to a mortal Man, and left her hapless suitor doomed to endure an empty, meaningless existence without her until the very end of Days.

   The Elf finished his meal. Then, without a word, he got to his feet, picked up his lyre, and with a nod of his head, he stepped towards the rock face and melted silently into the wilderness. Aragorn let him go, his mind reeling from the encounter that had just taken place. Slowly, he packed up the remains of his food and returned to his camp, carefully hiding all signs of his presence before preparing to set out on his travels south into unknown lands. His journey would take him even further from his home and from the lady whom he adored. He had never stopped loving her, not for a single moment in all his years away, but suddenly he felt a new determination and urgency coursing through him. Now, more than ever, he was resolved that somehow, someday, he would become a man of sufficient worth that her own heart might yet be turned towards him and so might he finally earn the right to her hand.

   “Le hannon, Daeron,” he whispered softly as he hitched up his pack and turned his face towards the warmth of the Southern sun. And, as he set off on his travels, the challenge before him, gave added purpose to his stride.

~oo0oo~

And it is told that in that time Daeron the minstrel of Thingol strayed from the land, and was seen no more. He it was that made music for the dance and song of Lúthien, before Beren came to Doriath; and he had loved her; and set all his thought of her in his music. He became the greatest of all the minstrels of the Elves east of the Sea, named even before Maglor son of Fëanor. But seeking for Lúthien in despair he wandered upon strange paths, and passing over the mountains he came into the East of Middle-earth, where for many ages he made lament beside dark waters for Lúthien, daughter of Thingol, most beautiful of all living things.

Of Beren and Lúthien                                                                                  The Silmarillion