Nightingales and Starlight by Clodia

Coda

    Coda

    In the middle of the room sat the nightingale harp, shining in the sunlight.  Erestor was prowling in circles around it, pausing now and then to touch a wingtip or sound out a single shimmering note.  Melinna perched on the edge of a table nearby and watched him with slight amusement.

    “What do you think he meant?” she asked presently.  “Why didn’t Daeron think he had the right to take the Queen’s gift out of Middle-earth?”

    Erestor shrugged, still prowling.  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

    “I could find a dozen people with a better claim to that harp.  More, probably.”

    “They can’t have it,” he said curtly.  “Daeron left it with us.”

    She almost smiled.  “We can’t take it with us, you know.”

    “Círdan will keep it safe.”

    “What, forever?”

    “If necessary.”  He spoke impatiently now.  “Or maybe Menegroth will rise again!”

    Her knuckles tightened round the edge of the table.  “Don’t.”

    Momentarily, Erestor’s guilt was clear.  He bowed his head in penitence.  “Sorry.  I’m sorry, my love.  I shouldn’t have said that.”

    “No,” said Melinna, more gently.  “You shouldn’t.  Do you think Daeron was right?”

    “What, to leave it –?”

    “No.  That Queen Melian wanted a piece of Doriath to survive even after she’d gone.”

     “That would have been farsighted even for the Queen.”  He had ceased to prowl and stood there looking at her, his fingertips still caressing the contours of the nightingale harp.  “Not impossible, though.”

    “So I thought.  Mind you, I don’t think her foresight brought her much joy.”  Now she did smile, a shade bitterly.  “‘Such is the sorrow of the wise...’”

    “I can see you’ll be quoting that at me for a hundred years.”  Despite his words, Erestor’s dark eyes were alight with sudden mischief.  He snagged a nearby chair and seated himself behind the harp, laughing at her over its silver wings.  “You won that one, I’ll grant you.  They’ll be singing Daeron’s lay until the world changes again.”

    Melinna raised her eyebrows.  “It doesn’t count.  We meant it seriously.”

    “Oh, so did I!”  He plucked out an experimental arpeggio and added, “Still, a victory is a victory.  Now what shall we call it?”

    “Daeron’s lay?”  She tipped her head back thoughtfully.  “Something meaningful.”

    “Well, of course.  Meaning what?”

    “I hadn’t thought.  But it should be the reason why Lúthien left.”

    Erestor glanced up from the harp and gave her a long, level stare.  “And what would that be?”

    “I hadn’t thought,” she said lightly again.  “Ask me tomorrow!”

Chapter End Notes

Melinna's quotation comes from the Lay of Leithian, Canto IV.1205 (The Lays of Beleriand 1994: 233).