Music for the Breaking of the Heart by StarSpray

One

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Daeron first fell in love beneath the dark tree-shadows of Neldoreth, not far from the starlit waters of the Esgalduin. He had gone down to the water to play with Lúthien, who took to the water like a duckling. Daeron roamed the banks, picking niphredil and other flowers that bloomed under the stars. When Lúthien at last emerged they sat together to braid the flowers with grass into garlands far too big to wear themselves. It was as they were finishing and preparing to return to their parents that Daeron heard it.

The music was not like any he had heard before. There was no easy rhythm to dance to, nor did it sound like a song that had words. It sounded like wind over the water, or whistling through stones or trees, and then it was like a mournful bird calling out into the night; it was haunting and lovely and as he stood listening, tears prickled behind his eyes.

His feet moved almost of their own accord, seeking for the source of the music. They carried him up the river, where the trees grew more thickly and all the way down to the water's edge; it was darker there, where very little starlight reached. The music mingled with the sound of the water, and before he discovered its maker Daeron was almost ready to believe that there was no musician behind it, that it was music made by the forest itself, somehow—or perhaps one of the powers had come all this way, unseen, to share some beautiful new magic with them.

Then, at last, he found the source. It was not one of the powers. It was an elf, silver-haired and clad in hunting garb, sitting cross-legged on a tangle of roots that jutted out over the river. In his hands was a flute made of a river reed, and his eyes were closed as he played. Daeron crouched in the shadows and watched the elf's fingers move over the flute, listened to the notes that rose and fell and, after a time, brought to his mind visions of other waters, wider waters lit by all of the stars in the sky, stretching out so far that the farthest shore could not be seen. The music was filled with longing and remembrance and love and sadness and joy and starlight and shadow—Daeron had not know that music could do that.

At last the music ended, leaving Daeron breathless, aching for more. The musician opened his eyes and looked at Daeron with a smile. Daeron knew him then: Beleg the hunter, who roamed far and wide through Beleriand and often brought back news and marvelous tales to King Thingol's court. "Well met, little one," he said now.

"Can you teach me to play like that?" Daeron asked, heart in his throat. He didn't know what he would do if Beleg said no. His fingers itched to hold a flute and pick out the notes—to learn that song and all others had had been written. Perhaps even someday he might write music of his own to fill other hearts as this music had filled his.

He need not have feared. Beleg's smile widened. "Of course!" He rose from his seat and jumped lightly back to the shore, where he reached his hand down to Daeron. "First, you will need a flute of your own. Come, I will show you how to make it."