Not the Choice of Lúthien by polutropos

Chapter 1

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Arwen was still a child when the stranger arrived in Imladris, seeking the grace of her father after long journeying, bearing little besides a silver flute. He called himself Lindir and her father welcomed him as an honoured guest. But he would often go away for years at a time, saying there were still many places he had not seen, and others he wished to visit again, and he could never leave behind a life of wandering altogether. 

She was a woman now, and this time when he returned he stirred something in her she had not known before and she could not put thoughts of him from her mind–his glissando of laughter, the way his long and nimble fingers moved through space, the dark shine of silver hair laced with black.

When she was a child he had never agreed to accompany her dance with his music, but now at last he gave in to her entreaties. After the first time he played his flute for her, she asked him if Lindir was his true name, for she doubted one who made music as he did could have gone unnamed in the histories. With eyes cast down, he confessed that he was Daeron, who was once loremaster of Doriath, who had once loved Lúthien, in a distant age that had passed into song long before she came into the world. He told her that watching her dance healed the sorrow of losing Lúthien. He told her that her beauty inspired him, which he believed was lost forever when Lúthien left the world. 

~ ~ ~

“Arwen,” Daeron said, closing his book, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I was hoping you would teach me a song,” Arwen said, gliding into the room and taking a seat near him. 

“What song would you like to learn, my dear?”

My dear. Her skin prickled when he called her that, even though it was a term of endearment used by many other of her friends in Imladris. When it came from his lips, it sounded richer, more sincere. 

"A song of Lúthien, what else?" She smiled, teasing.

He smiled back at her, his lips slightly parted, and he rose to pick up a lute, gesturing for her to join him on the bench. Plucking each string in turn, his ear bent towards the instrument, he adjusted the tension. He tuned an instrument faster than any other musician she knew, but at the same time with more care and precision. He approached everything he did in the same manner: his music, his intellectual pursuits–his conversations. Everyone he spoke to was made to feel as if there was nothing more important to him at that moment than them. 

She knew he had not always been so generous of heart. She knew that he had betrayed Lúthien and that he blamed himself for the suffering she and Beren endured for their love.

'If it had not been for my faithlessness,' she once heard him say to her grandfather, 'they might have loved each other in peace, for his brief life, and she might not have died.' 'And then many great deeds would never have been,' Celeborn said. 'No one who lived through those days believes that the King's minstrel determined the fate of Beren and Lúthien. You overestimate your importance.' Daeron exhaled a sigh of laughter then and Arwen imagined that the distant but piercing light of the stars undimmed by the moon shone behind his irises, as it often did when he recalled ancient memories. She knew that it was only through those past errors and hurts that he grew in wisdom and compassion. 

It must be strange, she thought, to be a matter of legend and song. His identity was not a secret among the Elves but it was rarely shared among Men or Dwarves. To those he met whom he would not likely see again, he gave different names over the years. Not to deceive, but because he did not want to disappoint them. 'I want each to keep their version of Daeron’s music in their imagination,’ he said. 'Besides, with Lúthien gone from the world and the waning of the Elves, the enchanting wizardry of which the songs sing is no more.’

Yet Arwen was told she was like Lúthien come again. She once asked her father if he believed she could re-awaken his art. 'That was another age,' Elrond said, 'I do not think the music Daeron played for Lúthien will return to the world any more than Beren will come again among Men.'

Daeron was singing the first verses of a song about the days of bliss when Beren and Lúthien lived on Tol Galen.

"Would you like to sing it now?" he asked her. 

"This song is beautiful but I already know many songs about that time of their love. Why not a song about your love of her?" she asked, lightly touching his arm.

"Ah," Daeron set down the lute. "Arwen, I dislike denying your wishes, but you know I no longer sing those songs. You say 'love', but through long ages I have learned I did not love her, not with the purity of spirit that Beren loved her. I do not want to encourage anyone to aspire to that kind of love."

She met his eyes. “Very well. Would you show me how to play it?”

“Certainly,” he said, and placed the lute in her hands. Then he drew closer and wrapped his arms behind her, carefully avoiding contact with anything but the instrument, and showed her where to place her fingers on the frets as she strummed. He had first taught her to play like this when she was still a child and could sit comfortably on the floor in the fold of his crossed legs. 

She did not really need to have him show her like this any more, she could easily mirror the position of his hands, but it was their habit to do it this way. He had only been avoiding touch since he had returned from his last journey and she wanted to tell him he did not need to, that she wanted to feel his arms around her, but she withheld because she feared that would drive him to distance himself even further. She wondered if he did it out of respect for her status, or because he already knew how she thought of him when she was alone and rejected it, or, maybe, if he thought of her in the same way, and was afraid. 

~ ~ ~

Of course Daeron knew what she felt for him. And he did desire her, ever since he had returned to Imladris to find her fully grown and beautiful and already so perceptive and full of wisdom. He desired her not for the ways she was like Lúthien but for the ways that she was not, the ways that she had become her own woman despite being compared to her mythic ancestor since childhood. But it had been ages since he had felt the need to act on any of his desires. He preferred to let them remain unfulfilled until they drifted off like a pleasant dream. 

Yet for all that, when she covered his hand with hers on the neck of the lute, his breath caught in his throat. She sensed it and turned to meet his eyes, searching for an affirmation. All the gentle words he intended to say when this moment came left him. He opened his mouth to speak, and her full, soft lips were on his before he could. Drawing back she searched again for a sign of his consent, and he gave it. 

She put down the lute and turned herself towards him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and kissing him again, longer and deeper than before, her tongue darting over his. 

His heart was pounding between his ears and his hands reached for her waist as he drew her closer, lacing his fingers through the long dark hair that fell down her back. She moved her lips to his neck and he closed his eyes, his breathing light and his pulse quickening. Eru, he wanted her. She awoke a desperation for touch that he did not know was there. 

She was placing his hand on her thigh now, beckoning him to touch her there. His hand moved itself over the fabric of her dress and his fingers gripped the firm muscle underneath.Then he opened his eyes and saw the warm afternoon light filtering through the study. He saw through the windows the cascading falls of the valley, and he was brought back to himself. 

He inhaled deeply and with as much gentleness as he could summon, placed his hands to her shoulders to move her away from him. She was smaller than him and did not resist but it still felt like lifting a great weight. He did not want to separate her from himself; he wanted to bring her so close that she was all around him.

But that was why he could not. He could only feel that longing when she was touching him. There was nothing else he could offer her but touch. So he peeled himself away and sat further down the bench. Her expression fell. Not in confusion or shame, which he was prepared to face, but in resignation. 

“You do not want me?” It was less a question than a statement. 

“Of course I want you,” he said, “more than I imagined. I think that is clear.”

“You won’t let yourself.” 

“No, Arwen, I will not. You are extraordinary, not just for your beauty but for your generosity of spirit, your wisdom, your humour. Your skill in music and dance and craft. I will not let you waste your heart on me, who has nothing to give you in return.”

“You give me joy, and pleasure,” she said, still unflinching in her gaze.

“And it warms my soul to know that my presence brings you those feelings, truly. You are young, though, there will be others whose souls are still whole and they will reach out to touch yours. When you are touched by the one you wish to answer to, you will know that the joy and pleasure you feel around me, though pleasant, is not the same.”

She searched his face and took a deep breath. He had to look away to resist the urge to pull her close to him again. 

“So it is, then,” she said at last. “I will see you at the evening meal.” 

Within moments of her leaving the room he felt the desire wash away, as he expected it would. 

Epilogue

In which Arwen chats with her grandmother about the events of Chapter 1. 

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“One of your father’s wards, is it?” An attendant glided over silently to refill Galadriel’s cup, but she waved him off.

“Yes, Aragorn son of Arathorn, as he’s only just learned. Such an innocent and love-struck thing, I pity him.” Arwen smiled, sipping her tea. The fresh-faced Dúnadan was handsome, and she had to commend his courage. She was used to receiving the kind of looks he gave her–glances people of all races passing through Imladris thought she didn’t notice–but no mortal man had ever ventured to speak to her of his affection before. Perhaps learning of his ancestry emboldened him.

“Heir of Isildur or not,” Galadriel said, “it is terribly presumptuous of him. And he called you Tinúviel?” She scoffed.

“He did indeed,” Arwen replied, setting down her tea and waving the attendant back over for more.

“I am sorry, granddaughter, that you must always live in the shadow of Lúthien. You are your own woman, you know that?”

“Yes, of course I do. I cannot blame the young man. There was a time I myself could not separate my identity from that of my foremother.”

Galadriel sighed. “Our people are rather fixated on bringing old legends back to life, are we not? Always living in the past.”

“You know…” Arwen looked down and felt a flush come over her cheeks, “I have never told anyone this–” she stopped, questioning whether she wanted to confess this particular thing to her own grandmother, of all people.

“Told anyone what?” Galadriel’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. For all her age and wisdom, she always took Arwen up on the opportunity to indulge in a little gossip between women.

“Well, when Daeron first came to Imladris–”

“You mean ‘Lindir’?” Galadriel’s mocking smile quickly transformed, her eyes widening and her jaw dropping, as a realisation dawned on her. “Oh- oh. He didn’t..? I don’t believe it, he’s incorrigible!” 

“No, no– he did nothing. He was very respectful, but I–”

“Arwen! You?” Galadriel tipped her head back and laughed heartily, for several seconds longer than Arwen thought necessary, before finishing, “Now that is very amusing.”

“Yes.” Arwen blushed deeper. “He rejected me, of course. Thank the Valar for that.”

“Rejected you? The audacity,” Galadriel huffed. “I will have to speak to him about that.” 

“Please do not,” Arwen begged. “I would be mortified if anyone else ever found out.”

“Oh, but your grandfather would so love to know! You would deprive me of entertaining my husband with this tale for at least the next hundred years?” Arwen pursed her lips and glared at her, and Galadriel leaned over to gently squeeze her arm. “Do not worry, dear. I would not do that, it will be our secret. We all make mistakes when we are young, and get foolish ideas. You know, when my brother Finrod was about the age you were then, in Tirion..." [read more]