Yours to discover by I_did_not_mean_to

The burned letter

The text going with this postcard was

Life is awfully ordinary here for a supposed secret. The birds sing no brighter; the bread tastes the same. The wind chills, Anar burns. Pain hurts.

This is a small piece of writing trying to address the topic of missives and invitations as well as the slightly forlorn and sad vibe of the text.

Read The burned letter

Daeron sighed deeply as he cast yet another letter into the gaping maw of the smouldering flames; as much as he needed to write them, he knew that they were not meant to be read by anyone. Least of all the despicable creature they were invariably addressed to.

A bitter burst of stinging laughter – blades and thorns in his dry throat – escaped him at the sobering thought that he would not know how to get his rambling missives to Maglor, even if he was inclined to let them leave his trembling hands to carry away his most intimate thoughts.

He was much like the forest pressing in around him: a complex mélange of layered secrets, bound together by willpower and indifferent magic.

The wailing echo passing to and fro between the enchanted trees and his disenchanted soul told the tale of a defensive precaution turning into a charming prison little by little, leaf by leaf, note by note.

“Where are you now?” he whispered into the flames; a part of him willed the unstoppable force of destruction and purification gnawing at dry wood to take his words to the hidden places his missives would never reach.

“Son of fire,” he went on in an adjuratory tone, “would that you could simply reach out from the blaze like the nightmares creeping out of the shadows. Are you safe and happy? Do you now sing to the wild ocean and the empty plains? Or - what a cruelly satisfying thought - do you feel solitude washing away the polished layers of compounded sadness?”

A darker vision overwhelmed his open mind; suddenly, unsheathed steel and breathless flight flickered like blurry reflections on moving water through his thoughts and he closed his eyes and averted his face from the fire to escape the fatal premonition.

“Do you even remember? Is your wandering spirit ever drawn back to this forbidden land, girded in spells I’d break my very bones against if it brought you back, and to the friend you’ve accepted never to behold again?”

Anger flared within his aching chest; sorrow and longing were woven into every fibre of Doriath and every melancholy note uttered only strengthened the bars behind which his soul paced relentlessly in search of another path opening unexpectedly under his seeking steps.

Nay, he could be but vainly irate in hopes to burn through his fetters like the merry flames of his domestic fire reduced the once proud trees of old to cinder and ash as the shadows grew longer and the sun paled on the horizon.

Some furtive helper brought in a tray of bread and cold meats for him, but Daeron paid it no heed.

Since he had first laid eyes upon that wickedly charming Noldo – or had it been the first frantic kiss? The first time his hands had plunged into that dark, silken hair as if into solid ink? – he felt profoundly changed. Nonetheless, new stars had not appeared in the sky in demure homage to Maglor’s eyes and neither bread nor mead tasted any sweeter in deference to his lips.

Daeron was indeed transfigured, elevated, sublimated by his deep and enduring love and he chafed as – ever-expanding to, in time, reach the one he missed so – he was restrained by the rules prescribed so irrevocably by his king, his queen, and his own common sense.

The confines that bound him cut into the flesh of his very soul as everything abated to a muted, dissonant melody that grated in his ears and stoked the inferno of his discontent. The wind was cool but nowhere near blistering enough to stay the tides of his longing; the sun was pale but far from sufficiently radiant to chase the shadows of his pointless yearning; the land within the girdle was preserved like a lifeless fly in amber while he was dying to fly free.

The subdued beauty of path and bloom held no wonder for him any longer; every stone trembling and each leaf bowing under the spell of his mighty voice verily thrummed with the echo of this terrible, unforgivable absence that lurked, gaping and insatiable, at the heart of the realm.

In spite of all the things that undeniably and inescapably were - thriving, blossoming, enduring - Daeron could but perceive that torturous void where a long-awaited and never-arrived guest should have sat, singing softly to change the course of their intertwined fates.

Once more, he resolutely set pen to paper. A few words. One trembling promise.

“I am on my way,” he scribbled and – this time – he did not burn the letter; he stowed it in his pack for the day he would finally be pushed or driven from his golden cage to soar into the endless sky beyond the safety of the intimately familiar secrets of Doriath.

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Chapter End Notes

This was my first time posting here; I hope I've done everything right.