Fic: Tolkien - Follow Thy Fair Sun, Unhappy Shadow - General

[tanaquific]

Title: Follow Thy Fair Sun, Unhappy Shadow
Fandom: Tolkien
Rating: General
Warnings: None
Words: 2,385
Summary: News of the fall of Doriath has made its way over the mountains. An exile in the East is drawn back to the last refuge of his kin. Written for the Probably AU Genfic Swap for Oshun and Ellie.
Author's Note: The story is set around ten to fifteen years after the Second Kinslaying and the destruction of Doriath.. I have used the the Doriathrin spelling of Daeron’s name—Dairon—as it felt consistent with the pride in his former position as Thingol’s court minstrel that I’ve given my protagonist, as well as with the intense dislike of the Exiles I have attributed to him, This version of his name is found in the Grey Annals in The War of the Jewels (The History of Middle-earth vol 11) and in the Etymologies in The Lost Road and Other Writings (The History of Middle-earth vol 5), where the name is translated as relating to “shadow of trees”. The title is taken from the first line of a poem by Thomas Campion. Thanks to Elena Tirel and Scribblesinink (AmandaK) for the beta.

oOo
Dairon walked along the duckboards laid along the edge of the sands. Below him on the wide expanses, the jagged ribs of the boats—new vessels half-built or old ones half stripped down—jutted up darkly against the purple clouds and the golden glow of the setting sun reflected in the slow-moving water. The shipwrights, packing away their tools at the end of the day, called good evenings to each as they departed. Inland, lights were springing up in the houses that lined the shore, each set far enough back to escape the worst of the spray when winter storms drove the waves high up the strand.

From further out, across the water, came the rustle of the beds of stiff reeds that grew among and around the marshy sandbanks of the estuary. Their ghostly rattle joined with the sound of the waves sucking at the damp sand below the shipyards. Yet the sounds of Ulmo’s realm and Yavanna’s domain here were as grating on the ear to him as the rough music of the After-born he had encountered far to the East. These were not the gentle notes of chuckling stream and laughing waterfall and majestic river, or the happy chatter of beech and oak leaves. The unfamiliar strains reminded Dairon that he had been a fool to come here.

But when news had come over the mountains, brought by the slow routes of Dwarven trade, that another of the great Elven realms had fallen, he had not been able to restrain his feet from the Westward path. He had cared little for earlier whispers that now this one or that among the arrogant Noldorin princes had been forced to flee their refuges. But to know that Doriath was no more? That Orcs and wicked men trod in the groves where Lúthien had danced to the piping of his flute, and the nightingales had made music with him in call-and-response...?

From the Dwarves, too, as he crossed the mountains, he had learned that many had sought refuge in the south, at the mouth of mighty Sirion. The river that had once flowed past many lords’ lands had, in the end, also washed their peoples down to the shore like so much silt. The Dwarves were not at all ill-pleased at the Elves’ misfortunes: from their mocking words, and amongst the askance looks they gave him, Dairon learned of Thingol’s fate, and Dior’s, and that a “thief” of the line of Lúthien still bore the necklace they claimed as theirs.

And so his feet took him on to where, in scarce forty sun-rounds, a bustling port had grown up at the damp toes of the Great River. Wandering the jetties and marketplace and lanes, Dairon had overheard enough gossip, spoken or in stray thoughts that drifted unaware from unguarded minds, to learn where the child Elwing held court. As dusk fell, he turned his steps a little inland to where the house lay.

The dwellings here were of wood and reed thatch; no easy stone to hand, here where river met sea. And though crafted with elven skill and art, Dairon thought these houses mean when set next to the lofty halls of Menegroth over which Thingol held sway. This palace of Thingol’s great-grandchild was no exception: a wide gateway led into a courtyard formed by the limbs of the building. Standing in the shadows cast by the walls of such another home across the street, Dairon saw that a hall of double height ran the length of the far wall while chambers and household offices jostled for space on either side; a few poor square cubits to hold all the majesty of Thingol’s people. And though the beams and arches were fashioned to leap with the grace of living trees, the simplicity spoke of the hurried pace with which they had been wrought.

Even as Dairon considered how far his people had fallen, a party approached the gate to the court. His breath caught in his throat as he saw, amongst the tall elves in stately robes, a slim maid. Dairon could not guess her age, for he could see the taint of the After-born in her, and he knew the children of the Followers aged swiftly. And yet there was a look of her foremother too: not just the dark hair, swept up like a crown, but in the shape of her eyes, and the sweetness of her expression, and the grace with which she paced amongst her guardians and advisors

Like—and yet unlike. The swift glimpse before the group passed through the gate and was hidden from him was enough to let Dairon know that whatever comfort he had sought here was not to be found. This imperfect copy was all that remained of she who had been fairest of all.

Turning away, Dairon let his feet lead him back toward the heart of the port-town. His spirit was sick and the wind gusting off the water, so unlike the sweet breezes that shook music from the leaves of Neldoreth, played on his skin like rough fingers plucking unskillfully at lute strings.

A little further along the waterfront, golden light and the sounds of voices raised in laughter spilled from what Dairon guessed must be a hostelry. Keen to be out of the cruel sea-wind—and perhaps, though he would not concede it to himself, drawn to companionship like a moth to a candle flame—he hurried forward and ducked through the door.

The inn was busy, though not crowded, and Dairon found himself a seat in a dim nook where he hoped not to be noticed. Loosing his cloak a little, he placed his flute in his case on the table, while his gaze roved over the company before him. There was joy in their faces, even after all that had befallen them, and Dairon wondered at that, his own grief sitting heavy in his heart.

“May I bring you a drink, sir? We have some excellent wine—.”

The words startled Dairon. The speaker was an elf who had been moving through the throng, a tray balanced on one hand holding drinks that he dispensed here and there, while he also collected dirty goblets. Dairon hunched his shoulders. He had been so long out of the world that he had no silver, or whatever coin these people used. And though he did not think he would be thrown out if he made no purchase, the thought of a warming red wine rich with the summer sun and the sweetness of autumn berries made his mouth water.

The elf must have seen his hesitation. His gaze fell to Dairon’s flute case. “Perhaps a glass in small token of recompense for your minstrelsy, sir? Though many here are skilled, a stranger’s music would please more than tunes oft-heard, I think.”

Dairon almost refused. Charity and pity for his gift, which once had been Lúthien’s delight? And to play before such as these? For he saw many golden heads amongst the crowd, and his quick ears had caught the accents of the troublemakers who had returned from across the sea.

But his heart yearned to make music for more than the birds and the squirrels, or for the After-born who were too easily seduced by even simple tricks of elven-mastery. He nodded at the elf.

The other indicated a small dais to one side of the room and Dairon made his way there. Glancing around, he thought he knew a face or two from those who had served in Thingol’s kitchens or armouries or stables, and he stayed his hand from pushing back his hood. He had no wish for recognition when he would depart on the morrow for the wild East, where there were fewer present reminders of his grief.

His identity seemed unguessed, though. Indeed, his presence at all was little marked: the curious gazes of a few of those nearest turned to him as he slipped his flute from its case, but most further away seemed oblivious to him. Again his heart rebelled: had he not played to the hushed attention of hundreds in Thingol’s presence? And yet—he pressed his lips together for a moment—was music not also a gift that should be given freely, just as the shy violets gave their splendour, clothing themselves like queens, even though no eye might ever spy them in their mossy banks and secret hollows?

Lifting the flute to his lips, Dairon began to play. The first soft notes were almost lost amidst the quiet chatter, but a few halted their speech and cocked their heads. Closing his eyes, Dairon focused on the music, recalling Lúthien’s small white feet flickering on the green grass, the curve and line of her arms as she swayed to the melody. Dimly he was aware of a stillness growing in the room as the piece pursued its course: sometimes hurrying, sometimes dawdling, like the streams that meandered their ways around the roots of trees; sometimes descending in a cascade of notes like water tumbling over rocks, or rising up like the songs of the nightingales in the Queen’s train.

As the final notes died, there was silence. Then a ripple of applause came. Dairon, opening his eyes, realized it was not faint praise damning his skill, but awed appreciation of it.

While he had played, the promised wine had been set upon the table at his elbow. Dairon reached for it and took a sip as he listened to the quiet murmurs of the crowd. It was a fine vintage, almost fit to have been served at Thingol’s table, and its berry notes were nearly as joyous on his lips as the music he had just made.

As he took a second sip, an elf rose from among the company and bowed. Dairon thought he had been one of Thingol’s grooms, though he could not recall his name. “Master, I have not heard such playing since we left our homes to the North. I would beg a song, if your voice is as true an instrument as your flute.”

Dairon allowed himself a brief smile at the compliment. More warming that the wine was the appreciation of discriminating minds. Yet he hesitated a moment, fearing discovery, until the eager gazes and soft voices murmuring, “Aye, aye, a song. Give us a song, Master!” urged him on.

Placing the flute carefully back in his case, he pondered what song he might sing. One of the old lays with which he had oft entertained the King and Queen? Or—something new? Lúthien was much upon his mind this day—more so even than the usual—and his thoughts ran to a threnody that had shaped itself in his heart as he had trodden the dim woods of the East. Though he had tried it at times upon the unheeding forest-dwellers and for his own bitter pleasure, no other elven ear had hearkened to its burthen.

Turning back to face the company, he drew himself up and clasped his hands in front of him. A hush fell, and into the silence he began to sing.

Before him, as the words flowed from him in his rich tenor, grew the woods of his forsaken home. Sunlight flickered through leaves stirred by the breeze, and in a glade a maid danced. At first she could be seen but at a distance, a graceful figure as she whirled and stepped. He heard softly indrawn breaths from his audience as he sang of her lost beauty and the image shifted, came nearer: her eyes shining like stars, her dark tresses that had snared the night, her skin as fair as the pale snowdrop raising its head at the first blush of spring, and her smile as warm as the sun-stars that turned their faces skyward in the summer heat. And then she was gone, forever gone, and the woods were drear for those doomed to linger here....

His song ceased. As before, there was silence, but the silence lengthened. Dairon feared for a moment that his grief had clouded his judgement and the song was not what he had hoped. Then he realized the company was too moved or too shaken to speak, each lost in their own thoughts.

At last, someone on the far side of the room cleared their throat. “Truly you are gifted, Master Minstrel.” The speaker’s voice was hoarse. “I had thought elven-memory incorruptible, and yet I had forgot—.” He gestured helplessly towards where the vision had flickered before them. “You make me grieve anew for what has been lost.”

His words seemed to stir the others and there was a susurration of agreement. At the speaker’s side, another leaned forward, his face eager. “Master, do you have more—?”

The first stayed him with a hand. “Nay, great art is a gift. One should not overtax the giver’s generosity.”

There were nods of agreement. Slowly the crowd turned back to their meat and drink, and their former conversation, though the room was less boisterous now than when Dairon had entered.

The elf who had last spoken approached as Dairon finished his wine. Peering out from his hood, Dairon realized with a start that here was one he knew well: Thalion, who had once been the King’s seneschal. From the expression on Thalion’s face, it seemed the recognition was not only on Dairon’s side, and his words confirmed it.

It is an honour to hear your gift, Master of Shadows. The un-thought “again”, as Thalion spoke one mind to another, hovered in the air. Yet perhaps to linger in the public room would be a mistake for one who... craves privacy.

Dairon nodded, setting down his goblet. I should leave. Return East....

Thalion’s hand on his arm stayed him as he began to turn away. I did not say you should set out on your journey now. Come. There is a private room where you may dine and take some rest before your feet once more wander upon distant paths. And where I might speak again for a while with an old friend of what is long-lost and long-mourned....