Beyond the Mist of Words by polutropos

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Beyond the Mist of Words

And Aredhel bore to Eöl a son in the shadows of Nan Elmoth, and in her heart she gave him a name in the forbidden tongue of the Noldor, Lómion, that signifies Child of the Twilight; but his father gave him no name until he was twelve years old. Then he called him Maeglin, which is Sharp Glance, for he perceived that the eyes of his son were more piercing than his own, and his thought could read the secrets of hearts beyond the mist of words.

- The Silmarillion, ‘Of Maeglin'

Dairon the dark with ferny crown
played with bewildering wizard’s art
music for breaking of the heart.

- Lay of Leithian, lines 498-500

The first time he heard the music, he was searching for mushrooms among dense ferns and mosses and the decaying trunks of fallen trees. No–not heard, not quite; it was as much sound as it was touch. Of long fingers down his spine, of a thought brushing against his mind. Lómion had been afraid, the first time. No one came to this place: the glade where once Elu Thingol, the King he had been raised to fear and hold in awe, had stood, transfixed by Melian’s enchantment. So his father told him, forbidding him to go near it. But lately he heard Eöl’s prohibitions as suggestions, inspirations, even exhortations to do whatever his father least wanted him to do.

None came there–but the breath that filled the pipes wailing through the air was as real as his own, which he now inhaled in shallow gasps. As the melody swelled, Lómion scrambled from the forest floor, flushed and trembling, and shielded his delicate eyes from the white light that flashed before him. When he drew down his arms, it was dark, and all was silent save the trill of nightingales calling to one another across the clearing. 

~ ~ ~

For days the haunting melody persisted in his mind. It whispered through the trees when he walked alone in the woods and it threaded itself through the words others spoke to him, confusing their meaning. It hummed in his ears when he was at work in the forge and the pile of projects marred by his distraction was growing larger. But it was clearest when he lay awake at night. Then it would seep from his mind, through his throat and lungs, and wrap itself around his heart, filling him down to his toes, which would curl around each note, holding it in. His skin prickled at its touch–a pleasant chill, like that which washed over him after long hours in the forge, when his body fought to cool itself from inside.

In his walks through the trees, it drew him irresistibly towards that glade, but always he turned back before he came too near. Would he have the strength to resist, if it was some spell? Lómion had known since he was a child how to make himself a shadow and pass through his father’s enchantments unnoticed–but this wizardry was one of brightness, and he did not know how to evade light.

Or would he meet the same fate as Elu, rooted to the spot while his mother searched for him through many ages? Would he forget his life in Nan Elmoth, would he want to return at all? Would he simply disappear? (That, perhaps, he would welcome.)

The passage of time only made the music louder, more insistent. He found himself more often seeking to be alone where he could release it from his mind and allow it to overwhelm him. The more he surrendered to it, the more its power increased, and the less he was able to resist it. 

~ ~ ~

The metal split and chipped and Lómion cursed.

His father peered up from between stooped shoulders, frowning, his hands still busy with their careful work assembling links of silver into a chain. “Such errors waste materials, Maeglin. Your mind is elsewhere–when do you intend to tell me where?”

Lómion’s thirst to know the source of the song had become too strong to ignore. “I heard strange music in the forest.”

“There is much music woven through this land. What of it?”

“This was not like any I have heard before. There was piping, a haunting melody, and light–”

Eöl set down the chain he was making and fixed him with his eyes. “You approached the glade where my kinsman Elu was robbed of his senses. Where I told you never to go.”

Meeting his stare through the darkness, Lómion held firm and replied, “I did. If you will confine us in this dark wood, at the very least I will know all corners of your small and lonely realm.”

“You should not have gone there. There is a power there far greater than yours. Greater than mine, even.” 

“But Elu gave this forest over to you,” Lómion said, “and Melian released her enchantments. Why should there be any place remaining that is not within your control?”

“Elu did, yes. But his son has ever resented his father’s decision and he haunts that place still, where his mother and father met long ages ago.”

“His son? You have only ever told me of Elu’s daughter.”

“Indeed. I would rather not invoke his name, but I see you have given me no choice.” Eöl clasped his bony hands on the table. “He begrudges me my rightful claim to Nan Elmoth. Dairon, he is called–a minstrel. But he is far more than that. Much of his mother’s art is in his music, which is why you can hear him here though he sits under the beeches of Neldoreth. I have been able to constrain his power to that glade, but I cannot assure your safety should you step too near it. Stay away from that place, and do not respond to his calls.” 

As soon as his father was engrossed once more in his work, Lómion quietly slipped away. 

~ ~ ~

A full moon illuminated shades of deep green and brown that were rarely visible in the darkness of Nan Elmoth. Lómion walked most of the night to return to the glade at the centre of the forest. He stood rooted to its edge like the trees around him, bent towards the centre. For long even the sound in his mind was silenced, until suddenly the music surrounded him like a crash of water and drew him in. He was cast down on his back and he threw up his hands to push away the shapeless weight pressing down on him–but it recoiled first. 

A single, piercing note seared through his ears and rang against his skull. Then came a voice, as clear as if its speaker were beside him. 

Who are you? 

Lómion rolled onto his stomach and propped himself up on shaking arms, searching for the voice among the branches. 

Do not look for me. I am not there–not to be seen with the eyes. 

As long as he could remember, Lómion had been able to know the thoughts of others, even of strangers–they showed themselves in colours and murmurs of sound. If he wished, he could pry open other minds to speak to them in like manner. But the lyrical voice that surrounded him now blurred the edges of his perception, as if his mind strayed in fitful sleep.

I know you. I have not been able to forget you. Who are you? 

His face contorted and strained to form a response, but Lómion could only sputter sound without thought, empty and inadequate.

Shh, I cannot hear you. Do not struggle. Listen. 

A flutter of short, low notes rippled through him, sharpening his senses. Each note louder and longer than the last, pushing at the borders of his thought, until with a clap and flash of light his mind was bared, and he was not alone. 

I am Lómion. 

The presence entered his mind as silvers and greens, and it wove itself loosely through his golden-black as if in greeting. 

I have never known a heart like yours before, Lómion, nor a mind so piercing.

Are you Dairon?

The silver-green slid towards the boundaries of his perception. 

How do you know me? 

My father is Eöl. He told me you haunt this glade.

A whip of silver lashed against him.

Eöl sends his son with his sharp mind to pry me open, does he? 

Dark green clouds swelled like a storm, engulfing a silver core.

No! He forbade me from coming here, but I returned. I know you are not dangerous.

I am dangerous. I could break your heart with a single song, if I wanted. I could silence you forever, if I wished it.

Lómion gathered his breath into his chest and closed his eyes. A face framed by long silver hair appeared to him, set with dark, sad eyes not unlike his own. The vision faded and was replaced by the cloud of green and silver, dispersing and spreading freely.

You tell the truth. 

How did you find me?

I often press against the boundaries of this glade, searching deeper in the forest. You were there. I was not expecting you. 

Your hand… you touched me.

It was not intended. 

… would you do it again? I have not been able to forget it.

Nor have I. 

Dairon extended a vine of silver towards him and Lómion shuddered at the touch of nimble fingers brushing down his spine. The silver swelled and pressed against his blackness. 

Let me touch you.

He could feel Dairon’s soul becoming thinner, warmer, but he was silent. Lómion strove against the enchantments still hanging in the air around them, blocking him from touching the colours and hum of music–so close now that he was nearly drowning in longing. 

Let go. Let me in.

With a flash of white light the spells dropped their hold and suddenly Dairon was there, his mind as bare as Lómion’s, and beautiful. 

I have never let anyone see me this way. You are the first. I cannot understand why, but you draw me.

Perhaps we are more alike than we know.

Perhaps.

A shiver spread across his cheek and Lómion poured out the golden hues he normally guarded so closely, letting them spill towards Dairon. As he did, his parted lips were met by a formless warmth. It poured down Lómion’s throat, filling him, and he had barely gasped for air when it returned, taking shape, near-scalding in its heat.  

Ae! You will burn me!

Dairon’s spirit drew back.

I am sorry. Your touch… I will stop.

No, do not stop. I trust you.

You should not. 

Even as he said it, his weight was pressing down on Lómion’s back, the phantom of breath on his neck. Lómion groaned and sought to relieve the pleasure swelling in his body against the firmness of the earth. 

No, please… do not expend yourself where I cannot feel you.

With great effort, Lómion turned onto his back. He spread his arms out to either side and poured forth yet more of his golden light. Yes, light –he had never known his own colour to shine before, but there it was all around him, mingled with flecks of silver, shimmering against the indigo sky. 

There. You are perfect. I want to know what lies inside of you. Will you accept me?

Yes, please. Yes. 

A rush of fluid, silver light washed over him, and he gathered it up in his gold, tightening around it, holding it– him –as he sparked and gasped. Dairon’s music murmured against him, its vibrations quickening the beating of his heart. The air drained from his lungs, replaced by his own golden light, and when he inhaled he drew only greens and silvers into himself. Meeting there, at the core of his being, their spirits shuddered against each other and filled him completely.

Then the light flickered and faded, their colours pooling languidly around them. 

I love you.

Do not say that. I cannot love a child of Eöl. You will betray me, in time. 

No, you know I will not. You have seen my heart.

And you have seen mine. We are more alike than you know, my shadow. I would not be able to let you go, once I had you.

You have me already.

We should not have done this, it was dangerous. Do not come back here. 

Dairon withdrew from their embrace, his greens and silvers evaporating into the night air.

Do not go.

But he was already gone, his music only a rustle in the trees. 

Chapter End Notes

Written for B2MEM 2022 'That's not my ship!' Bingo Card: Daeron x Maeglin.

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