"And ever the nightingale doth sing" by singing-sorrowless  

There’s a girl more beautiful than starlight on the western sea, but she doesn’t know it yet, not though the niphredil first blossomed on the night she was born. She is the daughter of a singer from the night-gardens of Lorien, the nightingale-woman, the enchantress.

There’s a boy who takes after his grandfather, but he doesn’t know it yet, not though they look so much alike it’s frightening, not though they share a name. He is descended from the first men to ever come to Beleriand, taught wisdom by a king of the Noldor so long ago.

There’s a girl more beautiful than starlight on the western sea, or so her mother and father tell her. She roams wildly through the forest, singing as she goes, climbing ancient beech trees and wading in clear streams. The girl looks at her reflection rippling in the water and she wonders what the sea is like. She has never left the woods of Doriath.

There’s a boy who takes after his grandfather, who all his relatives say was a fearless warrior. He grows up in a time of war, and soon his people are driven from their homeland. The boy stays behind with his father, hiding out in the wilderness with soldiers, planning strikes against their enemy. He learns early that he must become fearless, like his grandfather was.

There’s a woman more beautiful than starlight on the western sea, or so the poets tell her, in all their flowery words that praise her perfection. She avoids them when she can, knowing they expect something in return for their admiration. The woman picks white niphredil flowers, braiding them into night-dark hair before she dances. She is a performer, someone songs are written about.

There’s a man who takes after his grandfather, though he’ll never hear any more stories about him. He has lost his father, and he is all alone in the wilderness. The man becomes fearless and reckless, resisting the power of Morgoth as it spreads through his homeland, hoping to join his father and grandfather in death. He survives again and again, until he is written into songs, too.

There’s a woman more beautiful than starlight on the western sea, and one night as she dances there’s someone watching who wasn’t before. She’s afraid at first, but he’s afraid too, watching her with wary and hunted eyes. She comes to him, slowly, not wanting to frighten him away.

There’s a man who takes after his grandfather, and one night he’s stumbling through the forest, fleeing southwards from Morgoth alone and afraid. He sees a woman dancing, singing a song in a language he has not heard in a long time, and suddenly all he wants is to keep hearing that voice. He calls to her with the only name that comes to mind, and she turns.

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“Come on, Daeron,” Lúthien calls, pulling the minstrel by the hand, “there is hardly any point, to dancing without music.”

“Lúthien, the sun is going down,” he protests, as they’re all but running through the halls of Menegroth.

“And?” Lúthien looks back, stopping. “My father is not yet so strict he keeps me locked up after dark. What is it, really?”

Daeron is the only one she lets play an accompaniment for her to dance to, the only musician at court who isn’t trying to convince her into his arms or his bed with songs and favors and flattery. He loves nothing more than he loves music, and usually, he goes with her gladly.

“Well, we’re going northwards, aren’t we, to the wild hemlock meadow?” he asks.

“I’d like to.”

“Your father’s guards thought they saw something suspicious sneaking around by the northern border. It could be an orc, or some other agent of Morgoth,” Daeron says, spitting the name out like a curse, though his voice shakes, “and whatever it is I don’t want to encounter it.”

“I’m sure there’s no danger, Daeron, or else my father would have forbidden us to go to the northern border. You don’t have to come with me, of course, but I’m going. I’ll be alright,” Lúthien replies.

“I’ll come.” Daeron sighs dramatically. “But if we do see it, you know I can’t protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection. I just want company, and music.”

“Alright, then.”

Soon, they’ve made their way out of the cavernous halls of Menegroth and through the woods, arriving at the hemlock meadow just as the world turns gray with twilight. The forest floor is cool and damp under Lúthien’s bare feet. She shrugs off the deep blue shawl she wears and hangs it over a tree branch, standing in only a thin white gown, her hair flowing around her.

Daeron plays a few court dances, first, and she runs through the familiar motions, warmth spreading through her arms and legs in the cool spring air. He switches to a new song, or rather, a very old one. One of Lúthien’s mother’s songs, from the gardens in Valinor, far away and across the sea.

She starts to sing, softly at first, then growing louder, spinning through the motions of her dance. There’s a sound, rustling in the tree branches, crashing through the underbrush. The music stops. A flick of silver hair glints in the moonlight, then Daeron’s gone.

Lúthien doesn’t react as quickly. Whether from shock or curiosity or some newly-awakened foolishness, she turns towards the sound, and sees a man. A human man. She’s only seen a few of the Edain in her life, and she’s fascinated.

He looks like a wild, hunted creature, but he stares back at her with such soft eyes. There’s a moment where she’s left wordless and breathless.

He takes a cautious step forward, and Daeron’s warnings echo loud in Lúthien’s ears. She bolts through the hemlock umbels, into the darkness of the forest, making sure the man can see the white flash of her dress in the starlight. She climbs a tall beech tree, waiting.

In a minute, he’s there again, wandering bewildered through the woods. He doesn’t think to look up, and she’s sheltered by summer leaves, so she gets a closer look at him, walking beneath the trees. His dark curls are wild and tangled, cut short above his shoulders, but his skin is brown like hers, though he looks sun-beaten even in darkness and she’s always been pale. Lúthien thinks he must have wandered far to look so weathered while still young.

It hurts her heart in some strange way, to see him give up the search dejectedly, starting back towards the clearing. She had hoped to talk to him from her perch. But she doesn’t want to follow and frighten him, and she still has some sense of self-preservation, so she walks back to Menegroth’s thousand caves.

Still, Lúthien is sure, somewhere deep in her gut, that wherever the man came from, he is no servant of Morgoth come to attack, that Daeron is wrong. It’s only once she’s in her room, getting ready for bed, that she realizes she has left her shawl behind.

She returns to the hemlock clearing in the morning, this time without Daeron, and the man is gone. Her shawl is spread out under a tree at the meadow’s edge, rumpled like it’s been used as a blanket, sapphire blue in the sunlight. She thought it would be gone if it was needed.

Lúthien drapes it, wet with dew, over a willow branch to dry. The man is gone without a trace. She leaves the shawl, the only kindness she can give.

He makes no reappearance, not as summer turns to autumn and autumn turns to winter. At times, Lúthien thinks she hears someone moving, or sees a shadow amidst the trees, but he’s lost to her, disappeared into the forest.

One night as winter turns to spring, she goes out alone, wrapped in a heavy black cloak. She stands on one of the low hilltops where yellow celandine flowers grow, but none have sprouted yet, and a layer of frost covers the grass. Lúthien walks into the clearing and uphill, singing a song of power, melting the frost, flowers sprouting up wherever she steps. Her breath is a mist in the wintry air, billowing around her. As she sings, she picks yellow blossoms and adds them to the braids in her hair.

A man’s voice calls, “Tinúviel! Tinúviel!”

Nightingale, nightingale. There is no one else around. He calls to Lúthien.

She turns.

It’s the man she saw in the hemlock meadow. Slowly, as if she’ll frighten him away again, she takes a step towards him, then another.

He does not run or look afraid. He stands in awe. In the moonlight glinting off the frost, he is beautiful.

Not in the way elves are, no blinding, unearthly loveliness. He is all soft gray-blue eyes and brown curls, flush spreading across a wide, sweet face, warmth and life in his features despite the hunted look. She is a poor judge of humans’ age, but the short dark hair on his cheeks and chin and the breadth of his shoulders suggest a recent coming into adulthood.

Lúthien wonders just how short a span of time that is for a human. She stands in front of him, close enough to touch him if she were to reach out, and realizes she has nothing to say.

“Do you call me Tinúviel?” she stutters. It is the first time she has ever stuttered in all her long years.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he says slowly, looking down, “but I didn’t know what else to call you, and you sing so beautifully, and I wanted you to turn. I didn’t really expect I would do anything but frighten you away again.”

“Frighten me away?” Lúthien asks, incredulous. “I’ve been looking for you since last summer. I was worried I frightened you away for good.” She feels the words are coming out of her mouth slow and heavy, her silver tongue clumsy, all wit and wisdom gone.

“No, no,” he says, looking afraid again, “you were kind, to leave me your shawl. You were the first kind person I met in years.”

“I am sorry, then, that I couldn’t find you sooner,” she says, heart twisting guiltily. “What brought you to Doriath, and what do you seek in the woodland kingdom?”

“I was driven from my homeland by the enemy. Permission to stay here is all that I need. I am used to surviving on my own. And, if it is not too bold to ask,” he says, looking down at his hands, “I would know your real name, so I can call you by it if we meet again.”

“Of course. I am Lúthien, King Thingol’s daughter. And what should I call you?”

“Beren, son of Barahir,” he says. “Forgive me, I did not know I was talking to a princess of the elves.”

She can hardly conceal a laugh, that he is concerned about such things just now.

“I don’t mind. I prefer it that way, sometimes,” she replies instead. “But are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you? I would rather not leave someone who seeks shelter from Morgoth’s creatures alone in the forest again, even with the enchantments that surround us. And my father’s guards are over-vigilant, when it comes to strangers.”

“I will be alright, my lady,” he says determinedly.

The enchantments, she thinks. How did Beren ever get past the enchantments Lúthien’s mother wove around the forest of Doriath? Melian told her once that they would protect against anything short of the Enemy himself, or else some great purpose of fate even she couldn’t foresee. Was it some fate or doom that brought Beren here? She can’t think that he is a servant of Morgoth, for there is kindness beneth his beautiful exterior, instead of the hollowness of evil things.

“Beren,” she asks, slowly, steeping back. “How did you make your way past the enchantments surrounding Doriath?”

“I don’t know. I was hardly thinking when I crossed into the forest. I was running southwards from bands of orcs, and to escape, I had to go through Nan Dungortheb,” he says, some faraway look of horror creeping into his eyes, the huntedness returning.

She doesn’t how to keep that hunted look away, but she wants to, with a desperation that surprises her. Reaching out, she places cautious hands on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry for mentioning it. I don’t want you to be afraid. It’s safe here in Doriath,” Lúthien says softly. Beren looks into her eyes, with longing and fear.

He doesn’t shy away from her touch, so she decides to risk wrapping her arms around him, slowly and gently. Instead of breaking away like she feared he would, Beren leans into her embrace. He’s shorter than an elven man, shorter than her, but the perfect height to rest his head against her shoulder, in the crook of her neck. Holding him feels natural, right, though she knows it shouldn’t yet. He’s a stranger, a human.

Soon he pushes himself away, not meeting Lúthien’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ll leave you in peace, now.”

Her protests die on her lips. She wishes he would stay, but he isn’t hers to comfort.

Lúthien wakes too early the next morning, wondering what madness drove her to start embracing strangers and intruders. She decides to go find Beren, before he’s lost to her again. She gathers a small loaf of flatbread and a bit of goat’s cheese from the kitchens, wrapping them in the wide, flat leaves used for lembas, and taking a skin of water. As the dawn light starts to shine down through the leaves, she walks back to the hill, finding Beren still asleep under one of the birch trees around the edge of the clearing.

He looks so peaceful, younger and less careworn in sleep, curled up in his bedroll with her blue shawl draped over his shoulders. She walks carefully past him, up to the hillside. The celandine flowers have bloomed in abundance overnight, and she picks a handful, weaving a crown while she waits for Beren to wake.

She does not have to wait long, and she wonders if Beren is used to waking this early all the time. He sits up, blinking in the dawn light, then looks over at her. Suddenly she feels like an intruder, and has to resist the urge to disappear back into the forest. But he smiles, so, tentatively, she walks over to him.

“Tinúviel,” he says again.

“I think I like that name.” Lúthien sits on the grass beside him.

“I am glad, my lady.” Beren looks better this morning, though his eyes are red. She wonders if he has been weeping. It makes them look more blue than gray.

He wears a thin linen shirt, without the tunic he had on yesterday to cover it, and she wonders if, for the Edain, that’s enough clothing to appear in public. It is perfectly sufficient for the wood-elven men, but she finds herself trying not to stare at the curve of his back, the line of his shoulders.

“I brought us some breakfast,” she says, reaching into her satchel for the bread and cheese. “If you want it?” Still the words come out awkward and hesitant. Frustrated, she tries to compose herself.

“Thank you,” he replies. “I wouldn’t dare refuse the hospitality of a princess of the elves.”

“I don’t know if I’d call this hospitality. I stole it from the kitchens while the cooks weren’t watching,” Lúthien admits, passing Beren the small paring knife she took while she was there. “But, you’re welcome, of course.”

Beren laughs. She has the strangest urge to laugh with him, though her joke hardly merits it.

“No wonder you dance so lightly, my lady, if you practice stealing things from behind servants’ backs,” he says.

“That makes it sound awful!” Now she does laugh. “They would have given it to me, if I’d asked!”

“Why didn’t you, my Lady Tinúviel, if that’s not too bold?”

Calling her by the name he has made up for her is very bold indeed, since they are not close friends or lovers. She does not mind, though she knows she ought to.

“My father is an overbearing elf,” Lúthien says. “He doesn’t keep me from going out into the forest, but he’d rather I stay closer to home, or else in his halls. And if any of the servants or courtiers in Menegroth know I’m going out, my father does, too.” She rolls her eyes dramatically, making Beren laugh again.

His laugh is lovely to hear, especially since it’s probably so rare. She wants to hear it over and over.

“We are not called the Quendi for no reason,” she attempts. It earns a smile, at least.

He passes her a piece of bread spread with cheese before taking one for himself. They finish the cheese and the flatbread, drinking from Lúthien’s waterskin to wash their breakfast down, though she makes sure Beren eats a larger portion than she does, and only pretends to drink. She ought to have brought him more, she thinks, milk and fruit and honey wine. Beren looks like he has gone hungry far too often.

“Did you come to dance, last night?” Beren asks.

“To dance and sing. To make the celandine grow again after the winter,” She says softly.

“You sing and dance so beautifully, and you have such power. I would not keep you from that by being here. I will let you be, my lady.”

“I don’t see why you would keep me from anything. I can always use an audience.”

“Even better,” Lúthien continues, standing and reaching for his hand, “a dance partner.”

“I’ll slow you down, my lady,” he protests, laughing, as she pulls him towards the hilltop.

“Come on, Beren, dance with me!” She feels like an elfling again, chasing after a boy she liked in a game of tag.

“Alright,” he says, at last, laughing.

So, haltingly at first, with many stumbles and lots of laughter, they dance among the celandine flowers. There’s a kind of heat, in his gaze and in their closeness, that surprises her. When she leaves, he kisses her hand like he’s one of the elvish court lords, and there’s a kind of heat to that, also.

Lúthien thinks about nightingales, and silly young elven-maids, and too-bold mortal men, and the feel of that kiss lingering on her hand.

She comes back almost every day that spring, sometimes with a meal or a skin of wine, sometimes with nothing. Either way, Beren is glad whenever she comes. Sometimes she dances before the most adoring audience she has ever known, and sometimes she sings him elvish songs of the making of the world, the sun and the moon and Valinor, far away over the sea. Beren tells her the story of how he came out of the north, out from under Morgoth’s power, and the stories and legends of his people. They watch the stars come out and the sickle constellation rise in the north, or walk beside the forest streams and far into the wild places of Doriath, making their own paths.

Lúthien wonders what it is like to be in love, and why, in all her immortal years, she never has before. She supposes the time was never right. But a mortal? Has one of the Eldar ever fallen in love with a Secondborn?

She cannot believe that would be wrong. She feels some destiny or doom has been hounding her steps, drawing her inextricably towards Beren. 

One day early in the summer, they walk along the banks of the river Esgalduin. Yellow irises grow at the water’s edge, dropping petals into the water. The afternoon air is warm and the water is cool, and walking turns into wading, then into swimming, as yellow petals float in the slow current. After, they lay on the riverbank, clothes and hair drying in the sun. Lúthien looks over at him, smiling as the drops of water on his dark curls shine golden in the sunlight. His shirt clings to his skin, and she knows her dress must look about the same, but she can hardly care when he looks at her like this, in wonder.

She cannot put it in words, else it come out clumsily again.

So she leans over on one elbow, and lightly kisses his cheek and the corner of his mouth, hoping she hasn’t made a mistake. The hair on his face is soft and very pleasant under her lips. He looks up at her with such love in his eyes, running a hand through her hair cautiously. She lets out a sharp intake of breath. Beren leans up to kiss her, and they don’t pull away until both of them are blushing and breathless.

There are no words, then, so she curls into the crook of his arm, resting her head on his chest and listening to his heartbeat. His hands find the point of her ear, then the curve of her neck. She wraps one arm over him, playing with the ties of his shirt.

She has kissed, before, but it was never like this. Lúthien looks at Beren and knows she is in love, and the strength of it shocks her. In that moment, she feels doom fall on her and embraces it, so long as she can stay in Beren’s arms.

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