The Nightingale Sang by ArtificialEnt

The Nightingale Sang

[Crossposted from ao3, originally written for 2018 Silmladylove Winter Prompt Fest on Tumblr.]

Read The Nightingale Sang

Why did the fortress of Tol-In-Gaurhoth have to be so cold?
Luthien was hardly going to die of frostbite, she had enough of her mother’s strength in her to tell her body not to freeze, but still. The ice left a hollow ache in her bones. Perhaps her father was right to think of this a suicide mission, impossible in all but name. Perhaps Melian had been wrong to send that empty loom, that spurred hope in the vaguest memory of song, that made her think perhaps that she could aid Beren. He was so fragile, after all, a human—like spun glass miraculously untrodden in the dust of armies. That was why she had been drawn to him for so long, ever since she first caught him peering at her dancing in the wood. That was why—

Luthien jumped at the flutter of wings beside her. Had she really been so deeply caught in musing that some bird—those wings did not sound like a bird.

             “You are not the Beast that I was tracking,” an unfamiliar voice spoke.

The words rang with a melody Luthien had never heard as far as she could remember, soft, sharp, and tragic. A woman crouched before her, hair far shorter than that of any elf that spiralled in a ruff along her neck, her eyes filled black from rim to rim. Along her body draped no gentle robes as the people of Doriath did tend to bear, nor tunic as was worn while hunting. Instead, the woman bore only a cloak of leather, veined in ridges toward the ground.

Strange.

Luthien wanted to think she was as a Maia, particularly with the unabashed air with which the woman rose then to her feet, making no effort to conceal her wrinkled hroä from the breeze. And yet—her feä, when Luthien strained to see it, was unfamiliar, stronger than a man’s but subtly different from an elf’s, and no more powerful than that.
             “What are you?” She could not restrain herself from asking. “I have not seen your like before. What are you tracking?”

An eyebrow lifted. “I am tracking a Beast of Sauron, elven maiden. But what do you so close to Tol-In-Gaurhoth and the power of my Lord?”

“I have seen no Beast of Sauron in these parts,” Luthien’s eyes narrowed, “and I would rather hear you answer my question.” She had seen no such Beast besides herself, in any case, disguised as she had been.

There was silence for a beat.

At last, the stranger spoke. “My name is Thuringwethil,” a crooked smile appeared as the woman bowed, “young elf, and you will catch your death here in the cold. Once more I ask, why stray you so near unto the isle? It must be far from home.”

Perhaps it would be best to keep her secrets close, for the time being.
Luthien shaped her face into a mask of sadness. “Only to recover a trinket from one departed, if I can, that I may return home with a token of my beloved instead of but his death.” It was not technically lying. “I mean no harm, especially not to those who seek to break the power of the Dark Lords.” Who knew? Perhaps this woman was here to kill the Beasts where she could. There was at least a chance of it, for though her feä bore the taint of years of pain upon it, pain was not damnation on its own.

Thuringwethil’s smile faded beneath bitter eyes. “I understand.” She drew the winged cloak close about her. Eyes to the ground, at last she continued. “If you would tell me his description, I may be able to tell you if he is still alive, or whither he fell that you may find some remnant of him more easily.”

Luthien’s gaze was sharp. If the stranger could tell her—Beren was not dead. Beren could not be dead, but if he was imprisoned—wait. How could this woman know the fates of those who approached the isle, if she did not work with Sauron? Luthien centered herself in her body and spoke, allowing the chill of her surroundings at last to seep into her voice. “My apologies, Thuringwethil. If you work with the Enemy, I would rather not inform you any more than I have already.” She stood. “Let me pass, or when you wake you will not recall that ever I walked upon these hills.”

Thuringwethil looked taken aback. “I…” One hand rose, its lightly furred claws tucked as they massaged the woman’s temple. “I would not work for them if ever I had a choice, my lady, and I would not wish the Master’s displeasure on anyone. Please.” Her arm dropped to reach for Luthien’s fingertips, and when they brushed, her lightly clawed fingers were as frayed velvet over frigid porcelain. “I swear, I will not tell them of your whereabouts, or even of your presence, either way.”
Was that sincerity, locked within the stranger’s weary voice?
“The Lord Sauron is less temperamental than many of his servants, but he and his master both are brutal in their punishments. Do not judge me for what I have done to let my colony survive.”

Luthien paused. “You never answered my question,” she should really leave, but curiosity enticed her to stay and listen. “What are you, Thuringwethil?”

The stranger’s hand flinched now from their contact to fall back to her side. “A vampire. As far as my Masters are concerned, I am among the last.”

“And are you?”

How odd.

Thuringwethil actually grew the faintest of smiles at that, a few notes of hope in her grief-struck tune. “I hope not,” the vampire answered.

…Perhaps the woman could be of some use.
Despite the niggling fear which bid her flee, Luthien decided to take advantage of the woman’s friendliness for now, for the sake of learning more about the fortress. How was she to escape with Beren, after all, if the fortress was completely strange to her? She could not take on a full-blooded and powerful Maia on her own unless the encounter was but brief, and she could not ensure such brevity without a means of escape.

Her decision had absolutely nothing to do with the grim pride which seemed to infuse the woman’s feä with those words, no matter how dazzling the contrast was against this backdrop of misery. The fact that this choice gave her reason to remain in Thuringwethil’s presence a little longer was completely coincidental. Nothing but chance, she was sure.

At last, Luthien spoke. “Why are you still here? If you care not as to my presence, should you not resume your hunt?”

A blink. “I offered to learn of your beloved’s fate, did I not? You gave no answer, lady.”

True.
But she could hardly give such details without revealing which of the prisoners she sought—yet on the other hand, if Beren had in fact succeeded in gaining help from the elves in Nargothrond, then his role in the adventure would likely be less conspicuous. “He was a guard, in a small company of elves come from Nargothrond. I believe there was a man among them? I know not why,” she lied.

Now it was the vampire’s turn to straighten in surprise. “A small company of elves with a single human among them? Did they perchance accompany a… a Noldo, blond of hair and noble of bearing, with a strange light echoed in his eyes?”

Finrod? Luthien frowned. Even she who had hardly left Doriath knew that golden hair was rare even among the Calaquendi, and Finrod was the only prominent elf of Nargothrond who bore it. “Perhaps,” she hesitated. “I cannot tell you who those others are lest that be held against them, but my beloved was among their company.”

 “Then your beloved is dead,” Thuringwethil’s voice was gentle, “whether he still breathes or no.”

“He cannot be!” She could not help the outburst, stamping at the ground with far less force than she desired to. “He is not dead, I would know if he were dead and he is not!”

Once more Thuringwethil sank to the ground, kneeling barefoot on the stone, her face etched with sympathy. “Then he still breathes, perhaps, but still cannot be saved. Lord Sauron knows their presence, knows their kind, and seeks to extract their names and purpose. When last I visited the fortress, all the company were dead and eaten by the wolves, save four: the human, the blonde, and two more. They will die soon too, if no-one speaks, and not an army of thousands could save them.” One hand reached to rest against her knee, some cold attempt at comfort, Luthien supposed. “I’m sorry.”

Luthien suppressed the fire rising in her belly. Now was not the time for a display of power, for she must still be careful in her dealings with this… vampire. Yet neither could she bear to play the part of weeping elven maid, too deep ensnared by sorrow to let her anger guide her in dismay. “If he still breathes, I cannot assume him gone,” Luthien snapped, turning away to hide the glow of fury in her face.

             “From what I hear, they were captured on the plain just North of here. You may be able to find some sign of your beloved there.”

Luthien whirled, forcing her face back into some semblance of courtesy, and clutched the stranger’s arm before her to haul Thuringwethil to her feet. “Who has leave to enter and leave the fortress?”

Her efforts to appear civil must not have been successful, however, because the vampire’s expression was one of surprise before she melted from the half-elf’s grasp in a cloud of flesh. Bats, six of them, each with a wingspan as long as her arm, flapped a short distance away before they reconvened into the woman’s shape again. Her untouched hand massaged the reddened skin where Luthien had gripped it.
             “There is no need for rudeness,” Thuringwethil croaked at last. “I cannot help you. There are orcs, but they must come and go on a pre-ordained schedule; and Beasts, but my Lord sees to them himself. The only ones nearby that may come and go without question from the Lord are me and my kind, of which I am the only one in His service left alive, besides the Lord himself. Even if you have the power to disguise yourself with song, that will not grow you wings and the strength of body needed to wield them.”
The tone of Luthien’s voice was one of ice when she replied, power trembling in its every syllable. “Then all I need to do is take your skin, and leave you bleeding on the plain. A pity,” she remarked, “for I had begun to like you, and you are a beautiful speck of hope in this great wasteland. If we stood in another world, perhaps I might even have grown to love you as I do Beren, but here—“ Thuringwethil’s eyes grew wide, the thought finally began to dawn that this was no elven maid. The Princess of Doriath took vicious satisfaction in the sight. “Here, if it must mean your death to take back what is mine, so be it!”

             “Wait!”

Luthien paused, head tilted in plain question, though she knew she looked less mortal than ever with the blazing of her eyes, violet flowers springing from thorned stems about her hair. “One question,” she allowed, “and then I must proceed. Or if you simply wish a painless death beforehand, say so and I will put you to sleep, for I am not without pity in my feä.”

~~~

             “Wait.” Thuringwethil repeated. The hand held out before her trembled, the other clutched the leather cloak to her furred neck, as a child did its favorite toy. “I see now you are no elf-maid, my lady, so kindly forgive my presumption. If you can grant me some disguise and freedom from my Master’s chains, there will be no need for death this day and we may part in peace.”
She seemed to take Luthien’s continued silence as a sign to continue. “You are a Maia, are you not? A Maia, or else perhaps that Princess of Doriath, who was spawned from one, correct? Ordinarily, separating a vampire from their fell, their second skin, prevents us from changing, even though no mortal kind can use it in their place. If you are not of this world I do not think that would be true anymore. You simply need a guide to remind your feä of the shape it is to take, yes?”

The lady had grown uncomfortably close, now, and instinctively Thuringwethil took a step back. The maid was beautiful, even if her power terrified her and radiated that same strange light that dwelt within the eyes of the blond elf from Nargothrond. Vines crept up from her feet, her skin shone grey-tinged lilac, her eyes were holes into endless glowing white— “If you can free me from the compulsions placed upon me by my Master, then I will give my fell to you.”
The words tumbled from her mouth. She had to ask. Lonely Thuringwethil stood no chance against a being of such power as the lady, and she refused to simply lay down and die. “If there is some disguise that you could weave for me, that would be best, but either way I can go join my kin in the East if I am freed, and you may have my fell.” She swallowed. “If my fell does not aid you, then I suppose I will perish beneath your flames, for without it I have no means of escape as I do now. If you cannot free me, then perhaps it would be best in any case. But please, my lady. There is yet a chance that this might end in peace for both of us.”

Once more the lady seemed to drag the rage from her body only with great effort, forcing her hroä to mold back into its vaguely elven form. “Then do it.” A shaky breath fled from the lady’s lips. “And I will try my best to free you.”

Thuringwethil let out a sigh. “Thank you, lady.” One by one, she made her fingers peel from the cloak around her shoulders, and with gentle claws lifted it above her head. To give away her fell—she bit her lip. It would be no small task, and it would hurt as it grew further away. The leather was warmer than her own skin in her arms, even as Thuringwethil clutched it to her chest just one last time, her wings, her other self, her freedom—but they did not bring her freedom except in name, not while Morgoth’s bond was upon her. She could hardly bear to look when she handed it over, could not keep her arms from quaking nor from feeling suddenly exposed, even if her form was hardly more fully bared than it was before. It felt… helpless.
“A gift,” she whispered.

Her wings looked so small in the being’s hands, a patch of grubby darkness against the lady’s light.
Thuringwethil did her best to ignore the queasy discomfort already rising in her gullet, clawing at her ribs. It would only get worse, she knew. She was not the first vampire to give away her fell, or rather to have it taken from her. But the lady closed her eyes a moment and the deep black-and-purple cloak already on her shoulders clasped closer to her hroä, a coat of mesmerizing shadow instead of a second cloak, and then she slipped the fell over her head to rest on muscled shoulders. The being seemed to concentrate, and then—“You turned into several bats at once, before,” she remarked.

             “I did,” Thuringwethil kept her tone as impartial as she could. It would not do to put her pain on display if she could avoid it, even to something so vast and incomprehensible as the lady. “It depends upon the size of the creatures. You may be many small bats, or a single huge one, or somewhere in between. It is only the total amount of matter which must stay constant.”

A few seconds later, a familiar transformation took hold—from the shape of a woman, to a cloud of bats, and back. The lady smiled, and her hroä seemed to fade into something a little more resembling an elf with the fading of her anger. “Your bonds are written on your back,” she said. “I saw them when you fled my grasp before. I can attempt to cleanse them, but it will not be without risk.”

             “I understand.” Better than anyone, Thuringwethil understood.

             “When I reach Lord Sauron, I will tell him that I killed you, should he notice the difference between us. If all goes well, he will not come after you. I can give you the illusion of a hroä more usual among mortals, though it will wear off in time, but I have no extra clothes and there is quite a distance from here to the nearest settlement. You understand.” Her voice had left some of the coldness behind, in favor of a note of pity which made Thuringwethil bristle.

             “I can take care of myself.” She had done so for centuries up till now. How else could she survive the endless battles of Morgoth’s service, the cruelty of punishment, and all with her fell intact? It certainly had not been accomplished by leaning on her kin and hoping to be rescued.

Luthien Tinuviel looked down on the vulnerable creature which stood so proud before her and prepared herself. “Then let us begin.”

And the Nightingale sang.