A Deed Unforgiven by LadySternchen  

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Chapter 3- Lúthien

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Lúthien walked swiftly and silently through the woods that had been her home ever since her birth, and that she now left behind with no thought of ever returning. There was nothing left that was worth returning to, anyway. With their realm ended, their people had accompanied Círdan back to the Falas, and her mother… Lúthien tried hard not to think back to this farewell. Had they reached the sea by now, she wondered? And if they had, had Melian truly shed her body there, as had been her plan? She shuddered at the thought. True, her mother needed no body, which was just now a tremendous relief to Lúthien, but it was still a very strange feeling to think of Melian casting away the body in which Lúthien had come into existence, in which she had grown, that had nourished her. However much Lúthien turned the thought over in her mind, it still felt remarkable like her mother had just gone to die.

No, Lúthien chided herself. No. Her mother lived, and would outlive even the world itself unchanged. And furthermore, she knew that Melian had not simply fled to Aman but journeyed there to convince the Valar to take action against Bauglir. She had never believed that the siege of Angband would hold, mighty as the princes of the Noldor might be, and Lúthien agreed. How could they truly think to contain Bauglir, when he was the mightiest of all the Powers? No, surely there could be no victory of Elves against Bauglir.

And yet, Lúthien had set out to achieve just that.

Not that she fooled herself into believing that attempting to achieve this small victory would do anything but cost her own life, but still Lúthien was adamant that she would at least try to revenge her father. She would make Bauglir pay for stealing him away so thoroughly, much more thoroughly than by just killing him- for she would never, ever, be able to look at him again like she had before, knowing what they had done to him.

She remembered too well how reluctant he had been to ride to war, how wary of the dangers, and now she wondered whether he had actually foreseen what was to come. Had he known then, when he had embraced her, that this was their last farewell? She could still feel the cold metal of his mail against her cheek and wished now she had said goodbye to him before that, before he had been clad in armour, when he had still looked like her father, Eglador’s gentle king, not a warlord.

Had seeing him like that filled her with something like pride then, him and Galadhon with their helms and shining shields? She wished she could answer this question with no, but that she truly could not do. She had looked upon her father and cousin with awe, looked at their banners that had fluttered in the breeze, never guessing that she would never see them again, at least not upon these shores.

Lúthien sniffed. She missed Galadhon almost as much as her father, but his fate, at least, had always been known by them. She remembered only too clearly Daeron’s cousin, borne back to Menegroth by his faithful steed more dead than alive, shaking in Daeron’s arms, demanding to speak to the queen. He had told her, while she had desperately tried to ease his pain, of Galadhon falling already during the first clash of their host against the orcs. Of how Beleg had fallen with all his men by the banks of the River Aros, and of how Mablung had been hewn down as the last man standing of the King’s Guard. When Melian, who’s tears had fallen ever since hearing of her nephews death, had controlled her crying enough to ask what had happened to her husband, Daeron’s cousin had uttered three last words, ere life had left him- he was taken.

Lúthien would have preferred even then to know her father to be dead. Knowing -or worse, imagining- to what torture he would be put by Bauglir, had been far worse than outright grief. They had sat together for long nights, she and Melian, holding hands, trying to reach Elu in their minds, but as her mother had suspected, he had willingly shut that connection so that whatever they did to him he would not expose Menegroth and its inhabitants to the enemy. They had ceased to try reaching him after that, and a little while later, Lúthien had found her mother curled in bed under her blankets, sobbing bitterly, and Lúthien had not even needed to ask- she had known instantly that her mother had sensed her father’s passing.

Given that she truly had known, she would have expected to be able to take Círdan’s account easier, but that was quite far from the truth. She had, in some secret part of her heart, still hoped that her mother had been mistaken. And nothing, ever, could have prepared her for what Círdan had told them after. She could never have imagined her father being assaulted like that. The mutilations were horrible, yes, but they were to be expected. She had even been quite relieved to learn that they had indeed spared his face, and be it only by chance. But the… no, Lúthien would voice it not even in her thoughts. It was a crime that was unthinkable among elves, spoken of in hushed voices by those who had witnessed the snatching of their kin at Cuiviénen, and even trying to imagine how terrified her father must have been was beyond what Lúthien could bear.

She was torn out of her musings by a sound that might not have registered even with wild animals- but she registered, and decided that it was finally enough.

“Alright, I have had it. Come out! I know you have been following me for days, almost from Menegroth!”

As her cousins (well, cousin’s sons, to be precise, but Lúthien never was) slunk out from behind a tree, she smiled in spite of herself. They both looked like they were children  again, caught in mischief-making back in the years of peaceful bliss. They should have followed Círdan to the Falas, like their mother and grandparents, but apparently, the brothers had had other plans.

“So? Are you going to tell me what you are up to? Or are you planning on just standing there staring at me?”

Galathil scowled, which made Lúthien’s smile turned into chuckling. Grown elf-lord as he was by now, Galathil still looked exactly like he had done as an elfling when wearing that expression. Celeborn on the other hand did not scowl, instead saying softly:
“We, too, have a father to revenge, Lúthien.”
“It is not…”

“We also would like to help you avenge what they did to Elu. Not that our pain can be compared to yours, but we dearly loved him as well.”
Lúthien stared at them, suddenly having to swallow hard, all mirth wiped out in an instant.

“What about your grandparents?” she asked tonelessly once she had regained the ability to speak.

“They followed Círdan.”

Lúthien sighed in relief, glad her aunt and uncle at least were as safe as they could be.

“And your mother? Oropher?”

“Nana chose the havens, too. Oropher went east together with Amdir with as many as they could gather. ’twas a bitter farewell.”

That Lúthien could vividly imagine, as Oropher and Celebren had ever been very close. And still her heart rejoiced in the fact that at least her cousin’s wife was not lost to her.

“And so you two decided to become my annoying shadows?”

The brothers nodded in unison, seeming more like children than ever before, which drew a wry smile from Lúthien’s lips once again.

“Fine then. Where to shall we…”

She broke off, frowning, gesturing her cousins to hide. She could hear people near-by, chatting, singing, plainly not making any effort to remain hidden. Also, they spoke a language strange to her, though she had been taught enough of the ancient tongue to understand a word here and there. So the West was where those two wanderers came from. They had heard word of the Noldor in Menegroth, and then again from Círdan, who owed them the freedom of his cities and their inhabitants. But Lúthien also remembered her mother’s wariness towards them, and deemed it wise to handle them with such.

The two elves that came into sight resembled each other just enough to be clearly kinsmen of sorts, though they could not have looked -or indeed behaved- less alike at first glance.

One was very tall, even to Lúthien who was used to her father. She doubted that there would have been much difference in hight between them. He was clad all in blue under a coat of shining mail of a sort Lúthien had never seen before, a long sword hanging at his side. The top of his shiny black hair was braided back into one plait, while the tresses at the back of his head remained open, cascading down his back. Stern he looked, and grave, as if he had known loss, and yet this did not mar his beauty.

The other was… sparkly, Lúthien did not have any other word for it. He was quite a bit shorter than his companion, and his wavy golden hair was not tamed by any braid, nor did he wear mail or any other battle-gear safe a quiver of arrows and a bow, both slunk over his back alongside a slender harp. His garments were green and white, but so richly adorned with gold and jewels that the whole thing was almost too bright to behold, and yet it was not unfitting. He gesticulated a lot while he spoke, and his voice as gay and clear and made Lúthien smiled almost in spite of herself.
There was also something about him that was familiar. The melody of his words seemed to her much more alike to that of her own tongue than the other elf’s words, and what was more, the sparkling elf reminded her inexplicably of Galadhon. Puzzled, Lúthien chanced a glance at Galathil and Celeborn, and by their slight frown she guessed that they, too, had spotted the resemblance to their fallen father.

The two strangers were just on the other side of the tree behind which Lúthien and her cousins were hiding when she could not bear the tension any longer, and stepped out from behind their shelter. Willing herself to look as formidable as she possibly could, she drew herself up to her full height, and both to impress the two strangers and make sure that they understood, spoke in the ancient tongue that she had been taught long ago:

“Declare yourselves, strangers!”

The two men halted and looked at her in astonishment, and for a while, they just stood staring at each other. Then the golden-haired elf caught himself, and answered in something that was almost Sindarin:
“Well met, my lady. This is Turgon, my cousin and dearest friend, son of High King Fingolfin, and I am Finrod. We did not mean to intrude.”

He bowed low, and his companion also lowered his gaze in a gesture of surrender, which Luthien at last mimicked, saying:
“What is it you are seeking?”

Finrod looked her in the eyes for a while, then answered:
“A home, lady. A place where I can lead my people. And the ancient kingdom of our kin who are said to dwell here.”

Lúthien answered before she even had time to wrap her head around what Finrod had really said.

“That, my lords, you seek in vain. Our realm has fallen to our foe. I am Lúthien, Princess of Eglador. Or I was, before Bauglir assailed us, and took my father along with most of our men, and -for the sake of brevity in my telling of the tale- ended our realm.”

A shadow passed over Finrod’s face.

“King Elwë has fallen?”

Lúthien nodded, still unable to process the new developments.

“I am grieved to learn this. For I am your kinsman, my Lady Lúthien. My father is Arafinwë, youngest son of Finwë, High King of the Noldor, but my mother is Eärwen of Alqualondë, daughter of King Olwë, your uncle.”

Lúthien marvelled. How strange it was to think that she should find her sundered kin in those that returned from the West, and hear of a cousin she had never known of. How it would be, she wondered, to have a female cousin as well, a friend with whom to share her thoughts, like her mother had done with her aunt Thônwen?

“Tell me of them.” she bade. “Of your mother and of Olwë, too. It was ever said that his hair was white as snow, is that so? He has ever been only a ghost of longing of my father and uncle.”

Finrod smiled gently, though it did not escape Lúthien how a shadow passed over his companion’s face, a shadow of sorrow and regret.

“So it is, and my mother’s, too. Not for nothing is she called the Swan-maiden of Alqualondë. She used to dance on the pearly shores of Eldamar with the waves. My father, though a prince of the Noldor, was ever a great friend of her and her  brothers, and took her to wife when they were deemed old enough.
Olwë himself is a gentle and just ruler, and a king most beloved. His crown is of pearls, as are his halls, and there is singing and harping almost always in his palace. But apart from being a great king, my siblings and I loved him for being our cherished grandfather, and we loved every moment that we spent there in Alqualondë. And just like you, we grew up with those ghosts of longing, with the tale of brothers that Olwë left on starlit shores. Of level-headed, faithful Elmo and of Elwë, who was named for the stars that shone in his eyes.”

Finrod smiled gently at Lúthien, who lowered her gaze, sure that she knew what was to come, that he would tell her that she had inherited her father’s eyes. Finrod said no such thing, however, but simply went on:
“My grandfather ever mourned this sundering.”

“Elmo lives.” Lúthien said in spite of herself. “He resides with Círdan by the sea. I have his grandsons here with me, though.”

Celeborn and Galathil now stepped from behind their tree, and bowed courteously to Finrod and Turgon. Tentative smiles passed between them, and in the many hours of talk that followed, they agreed on one thing- that the finding of kin unlooked for was a beautiful thing. 

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Chapter End Notes

Oh, just a word to the languages used- no, I am not going to go down the rabbit-hole of discussing the Quenya-ban or if Quenya would have been the primary language throughout Beleriand had Elu Thingol not been king, but rather stay with canon, that states quite clearly that Sindarin was already the language in use because the Noldor had an easier time learning Sindarin than the Sindar and Nandor had learning Quenya. Hope that'll answer any questions about the upcoming chapters in advance.