A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

Flashback- Lúthien

Something within Lúthien shattered. She knew this hallway, had been here before, had walked alongside her friend as he had been lead to his execution, through the door at the end, the very door that she was staring at now. So her dream never had been a dream.

Deep down, she had known from the very beginning that she had seen rather than dreamed, and learning of Daeron’s disappearance had only confirmed that fear, yet seeing proof, solid, undeniable proof that she had really witnessed her dearest friend’s demise was a whole new level of terror.

“Come on!”

She ignored Beren’s hiss and made her way to the door, pulling at the iron handle to prise it open

“What are you doing? Lúthien, whatever are you doing? We have a Silmaril and are still alive, is that not enough? Let us now also stay alive and get out of here!”

She did not answer him, already squeezing through the gap in the doorway she had managed to open.

“You go. I still have one last task to finish here.”

Beren’s disgusted snort almost made her laugh.

“I am not leaving you, as you full well know.”

Maybe he waited for her to tell him some more, to explain to him what this was all about. If so, he would have to be patient. Or else just use his brains and add two and two together.

The room smelled of unwashed clothes, blood and orcs- and of fear. It was vaster than Lúthien had grasped from seeing it in her dream, looking like the mockery of an Elvish armoury, with weapons and armours laid out on crude tables. Lúthien knew better, however. This was no armoury- it was Angband’s trophy-room.

And she knew what she was looking for. Knew, because she had not only witnessed Daeron’s brutal murder in this room, but seen what he had seen, and now she wondered whether it had been Melian’s foresight awoken in her that had shown her what she had never wanted to see, or whether it had not been Sauron’s doings, planting this vision in her head just to torture her.

It did not matter either way. It only mattered that she could now take back what was rightfully hers.

The ever-keen blade of the sword gleamed in the torchlight as she lifted it from the table it had rested on for these past centuries, together with the other trophies from the first battle of Beleriand. This would pose a bit of a challenge, as it was too long for either her or Beren to wield purposefully, and they had no sheath to put it into. Unless… well, being pragmatic, the cloak would do, even if her heart wept at the thought of the damage the blade would do to it. Still, better the cloak than their skins.

She pressed her face into the grey wool for a moment, breathing in deeply. Among all the stench of Angband, it still smelled faintly of home, of being securely held and cuddled in starry woods. But they could not tarry longer, so she wrapped the sword in her father’s mantle, then at last she took Daeron’s flute and hid it away under her tunic, pressing it to her heart.

‘I am sorry I could not save you, dearest friend. I am sorry I could not comfort you. But this, this I can do for you. I shall keep your beloved flute safe, and cherished, I promise.’

Once more, Lúthien turned to her father’s belongings, to run her fingers gently over the dusty armour and crown, then took a moment to look more closely at her surroundings. There were so many others, armours and weapons that had clearly been forged by smiths of the Noldor, each telling a story, each being the grave reminder of a life that had been lost.

”Lúthien, come ON!”

Beren sounded panicked, and she could in truth not blame him. They needed to be gone. Now.