Your Song by Kaylee Arafinwiel

Your Song

Inspired by "Your Song" by Elton John, which I know from "Moulin Rouge". The text is used throughout and I disclaim it.

Read Your Song

“My lord…” Maranwë raised an eyebrow as he entered the presence of the Lord of Mandos. “We…ah…have a problem.”

“What might that be, Maranwë?” Námo asked, rising from his throne. “I understand young Barahirion has come to us. Surely, he has not caused trouble?” he asked, heading for the doors.

The Maia actually looked…flustered as he walked alongside his master. “Ah…not as such, my lord,” he hedged. “That is, the Man has been a model guest, if it were not for his insistence that he had been…ordered…to wait.”

“Ordered by- “Námo cut himself off as a graceful form leapt down between the door and the two Ainur. She fell to her knees, dark hair wrapped about her like a mantle. It was her only garment, for she was in fëa, though their presence lent the elf the solidarity her body had once known.

 

“By your…niece,” Maranwë replied, eyes brightening with suppressed amusement. Námo raised an eyebrow at his faithful servant. “Ah, of course, Melyanna’s child.” He surveyed Lúthien, who knelt before him, eyes raised and meeting his amaranthine gaze unflinchingly. “What would you have of me, Child?”

Instead of answering, Lúthien whirled back a few steps, dancing lightly across the slate tile of Námo’s throne room. Her hair swirled around her, and she began to sing of pain and sorrow that only an Incarnate could comprehend entirely.

 

My gift is my song and this one's for you

 

Not, Námo understood, for him; he could tell well enough to whom Lúthien was singing, and Summoned Beren’s fëa with a single thought. Normally he would not permit the Firstborn and Secondborn to mix in his Halls, but he sensed something else at work here. Beren, who had been struggling ineffectively against the Maiar Námo had sent to guard him, now grew quiescent, listening.

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world

 

Tears were streaming from the Man’s eyes, for of course he was as solid as Lúthien in their presence. “How wonderful life was,” he whispered. He knew they were no longer in the world they had known, but beyond Life. Death was their lot now, Death and Judgement for his beloved.

I sat on the roof and kicked off the moss
Well a few of the verses well they've got me quite cross
But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song
It's for people like you that keep it turned on

Námo, for his part, was reading the tale in Lúthien’s words as she continued to sing. It was a Song now, a Song of Power, of which he had thought very few of the Eldalië capable. Of course, Lúthien was no mere Elf. He read in her words the flight of Beren and Lúthien into his Fallen Brother’s lair to steal the Silmaril, Lúthien cloaked, bat-like, in her dark hair then as she was now, weaving spells of sleep. She didn’t seem to be trying that on him, thank Atar…

“It is just as well for us she cannot steal Beren back that way, hmm, my Lord?” Maranwë snorted.

Námo declined to comment. He wouldn’t put it past the child to try it if she could. But now Lúthien was spinning back across the floor, to Beren, pulling her love into her arms and pressing their naked hröar together as she kissed him soundly.

So excuse me forgetting but these things I do
You see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue
Anyway the thing is what I really mean
Yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen

 

Tears streamed from the couple’s eyes as Lúthien drew back from their embrace – and to his surprise, Námo found himself moved to tears.

And you can tell everybody this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words
How wonderful life is while you're in the world

 

“How wonderful you made my life, my Lúthien,” Beren said softly. “All I endured, I would do so again, for you. But you do not belong here. You should not be dead.”

“You should not be, either!” Lúthien replied, voice choked with tears. “I did not follow you into the very dungeon of the Nameless only to see you taken from me forever.”

“So, you come to your uncle like an elfling being denied a favourite sweet,” Maranwë said wryly, trying to inject some humour into the situation. Lúthien scowled, turned on the Maia and slapped him.

“You dare mock me!”

Maranwë rubbed his cheek, exchanging a glance with Námo. “Really, my lord, perhaps you ought to send the cheeky brat back to Melyanna after all.”

“I won’t leave Beren, you…you….”

Námo rounded on Lúthien, gaze darkening with foreboding. “Beren is Mortal, and is doomed to leave Arda, will he or nill he. To you alone is given a choice, daughter of Melyanna and Elwë Singollo.”

 

“And what is that, my lord?” Lúthien replied, mastering her temper with a great effort.

“Because of your labours and your sorrow, you could be released from Mandos, and go to Valimar, there to dwell until the world's end among the Valar, forgetting all griefs that your life had known. Thither Beren could not come. It is not permitted to the Valar to withhold Death from him, which is the gift of Ilúvatar to Men,” Námo began. “The other choice is this: that you return to Middle-earth, and take with you Beren, there to dwell again, but without certitude of life or joy. Then you would become mortal, and subject to a second death, even as he; and ere long you would leave the world for ever, and your beauty become only a memory in song.”

Lúthien clasped Beren in her arms. “I choose the second fate,” Lúthien said quietly. “For I will never after be parted from my beloved.”

“This is your Song, as you yourself have Sung it, Child,” Námo replied. “Just remember, as you are now Mortal, you shall forsake your Maiarin gifts as well.”

“What care I for that, when I have my love?” Lúthien replied.

Námo smiled grimly. “As to that, we shall see, Daughter.” Biers were brought, and he laid them down, covering them in a sheet of white samite. “Sleep and be refreshed. When you awaken, give Melyanna our greeting.”

“I will, Uncle,” Lúthien murmured, a smile curling her lips. Námo brushed his lips over her pale brow, and she fell asleep, followed soon after by Beren.

At Námo’s command, his Maiar bore the biers to Doriath, laying the Children before the gates of Menegroth, there to waken with the rising of Anor.