The Line Of The Peredhel for Silmsmutweek 2025 by LadySternchen  

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Day One- Spring

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“Do we really do this? Elu, do we truly dare?”

It is bitterly cold in the forest clearing, and right now, even Melian’s magic cannot hold off the icy sleep of Yavanna, all her strength bound in the meaning of the moment. She shivers, longing for her clothes she has just shrugged off. Elu does not answer, but only reaches out to brush his fingers over her shoulder, before bending down to kiss the same spot. Goosebumps erupt all over Melian that have nothing to do with the cold, and everything with his warm breath on her skin and the impossible gentleness of his touch. That, and the fact that he stands before her just as bare, shivering just like her, his silver hair gleaming in the starlight. She longs to bury her fingers in it, to pull him close, to feel the lean muscles play under his skin as they become one. Lovemaking is nothing new to her anymore.

And yet, this is new. New, and dangerous.

Melian pushes Elu away a little, so she can cup his face in her hands, and look him in the eyes. She needs him to give his answer with all his senses, she needs not only to hear him, but see him, smell him, feel him and taste him.

“I need you to answer,” she whispers, her voice denying her service. “I need to know you understand…”

Unlike her, who is shivering with the weight of too many sensations, and worse, too many feelings, Elu seems at ease. He is too used to being cold for it to bother him, his body, made of the fabric of Arda, designed to withstand such hardships. And he is not fazed by Melian’s fear, either, his gaze warm with love for her, and overflowing happiness for what they are about to do.

She needs to voice it nonetheless.

“You understand that I am no Elf, that this has never been done, that… that our child, should we indeed achieve what we set our minds to, will bear in part the spirit of an Ainu, that…”

“… that they will be more powerful than I am, and that it might well be that siring that child will demand too much of my strength? Yes, I understand it, and I will not shy away from it. Have faith, beloved.” He finishes her sentence for her, then takes her hand and leads her to the stream. “Come, if you will it.”

There is nothing that Melian wants more. Save for her husband living to raise their child with her. He laughs, stepping close to her once again and clasping his hands over her cheeks, which must leave her looking very stupid.

“Melian! Stop thinking this over. I will not die begetting this child, and if I do nonetheless, then I will be remembered in all Arda as having died the stupidest death an Elf can die.”

“It is not funny!”

This time, Melian’s shivers stem from her building anger. Will he ever take this seriously? Will this… this boy ever understand what he is doing? That he consented to pour his Fëa into a being with a spirit so vast that he cannot even fathom it?

“Yes, it is. It’s hilarious.”

Mischief plays on Elu’s face that so rarely surfaces these days, buried under the burden and dignity of kingship, but still never fails to enchant Melian anew. This is the Elf she fell in love with. With a motion too swift for him to evade, she moves around him, slapping his backside with a resounding smack.

“Ai!”

“This is because you are an insufferable, irresponsible, childish fool!”

Then, with equal swiftness, she spins him around and pulls him close, her lips finding his, to kiss him deeply. She can feel him grin, but his kiss is resolute and steadfast, making the last of her doubts melt away. If he is so sure of the rightfulness of this breach of all boundaries known within Arda, then she is, too.

“And this is for being my insufferable, irresponsible, childish fool,” she gasps, once they break apart.

“Come,” he says gently, again pulling her towards the stream.

Melian has dreaded this, the ritual bath Elves took before begetting a child, an ancient ritual she knows has no benefits at all, but still she adheres to it. Elu does not flinch as he steps into the ice-cold water, though Melian can see every muscle in his body contort. She decides that as a Maia, she can afford not to put on a brave face, and she gasps when he pulls her into the water with him.

“Do you remember,” he asks quietly, holding her steady against the current once they are submerged to above their hips, “the little lake we swam after we left Nan Elmoth? How we danced afterwards? Of how the moss was our wedding bed?”

“Yes,” is all Melian can bring herself to say, overcome with emotion rather than the cold.

She will carry this memory into all eternity, and cherish it with all her heart. The day they first sealed their union, the day they became husband and wife.

“You were so insecure that you could not even bring yourself to name your own body parts, let alone give a name to what we were doing. And I had no idea, either,” she chuckles, once she has composed herself a little. “Only that it felt wonderful.”

They wade in ever deeper, until Elu’s numb feet slip on a rock, and he stumbles, and pulls Melian under with him. For a moment, there is nothing but water. Water, and darkness, and him. Then they emerge, gasping and panting, and laughing.

“Are we clean enough now?” she asks, teeth chattering.

 

The first time they joined their bodies, they did so alone in the woods, soft moss making their bed, Melian’s nightingales singing overhead, covered by Elu’s mantle. It is the same now. No one disturbs them, no one even knows where they have disappeared to, and Elu’s grey mantle covers them well. Desire soon drives the cold away, droplets of water being replaced by their sweat. It is wonderful, feeling him within her, hearing his small moaning gasps as her warmth engulfs him, but it is not until they reach the height of their arousal together that Melian understands what they mean by pouring their souls into the new being that will come out of their union, that will carry a part of both its parents not only physically, but spiritually. It is a dance, really, a dance at the peak of desire, overwhelming even to her.

Their rebellion. Elu, who for all his love for the Valar and striving to please them still remained in Beleriand. She, who married an Elf, lived as an Elf, doing as none of her kin had ever done before.

Their beauty. Not only that of their bodies, his fine features and starry, light-grey eyes, not only her jet-black curls and enchanting voice, but their love, a love so strong and true that nothing would ever overcome it. Her pity for the world, her will to heal all hurts, to make everyone well. His fierce loyalty, his trusting in the good, his refusal to let go of those he loved. And their joined song, their music that echoed through them at all times.

Their hope. Above all, their childish, stubborn hope.

Elu is unconscious before he has spilled the last of his seed in her, before Melian is wholly back in the here and now following her climax. She holds his limp form tight, feels his heart racing through both their bones and skins and muscles. But she is not afraid, fears for him no more. She will let him sleep, give his body and mind the chance to regain what strength he has left, while she lets her Elvish body, her body, do its work.

 

She lies still, and listens to their joined themes, audible only to her, a distant echo of the Great Music, but no less potent. For how long she lies unmoving, she does not know, only that long before Elu first stirs, a new melody has joined theirs, small and tentative yet richer than Melian has ever heard.

 

Their daughter.

 

She does not yet know that Lúthien will be born in almost the exact spot she was begotten, nor that Melian and Elu will be alone, that their child will be born into his hands. She knows nothing of the pain she will feel giving birth, her labour so different to that of Elves, and nothing of the flowers that will blossom from the earth to greet their daughter. That the fruit of their union will bring Spring to Arda. She knows not that Elu’s jesting before he pulled her into the water has been the last she saw of his mischievous side for many ages. That it was not his life, but all the carelessness of childhood that he poured into Lúthien. She knows not that motherhood will cloud her sight even more than binding herself in a body has done, foresees nothing of the devastating heartbreak that lies ahead. But she knows that they have done right by the Music.