Apprentice by Quente

"Close your eyes, Dior."

Read "Close your eyes, Dior."

Melian stood behind him, her hand on his arm. Her voice, speaking near his ear, sounded more like a bird's liquid notes than anything human -- even though she spoke as they did, in the language of Thingol's court. "Here -- do you feel it? It should feel like walking through mud, or lying on wet ground. Or walking through the watery air before a thunderstorm."

Dior closed his eyes. He reached down into the roots of the mountain where Menegroth lay, tucked under the hill like a rabbit warren. He felt the life of Beleriand, hopeful and curious, deep within the earth -- the roots of pale plants and soft funguses, veins of sharp ore with its glitter dark and waiting, and far below the bedrock and the slowly shifting land, nothing but fire.

"Not that," Melian said, "You go too deep. Lift, lift -- follow my song." And she began to hum it to him, and his mind rose like a mole burrowing upward.

The song was strange, as it always was. It sang just as incuriously of death as it did of life, hinting at the part everything had to play in the greater story.

Dior broke free of Melian's music, drawing his awareness back into himself, stumbling forward and turning to look at her. "It bothers me. That you know the end of it all. That everything I love will perish, that my own life will be over soon. You have it in your song."

"I do." Melian regarded him steadily. "You have heard it, son of my daughter. And you have also heard what comes after."

"Not for me," Dior said, sharply.

"Oh?" Melian said, and stepped forward, her eyes intent on his. Dior fell into them, and suddenly he was swept up in a greater song, one that was older than any of his delvings into Beleriand. It was a symphony of stars -- and far beyond, glimmering somewhere in the mist of the day beyond all days -- was the fate of Men.

When she finally released him, Dior was on his knees, eyes closed, with tears streaming down his cheeks.

"You see? It is beyond all that we know, here. There is some other purpose."

"And yet, it is the saddest possible fate, to create it all and then let it die."

"And yet," Dior's grandmother said softly, stepping forward to touch his cheek. "And yet it makes a beautiful music."

Curse the music, Dior thought resentfully, thinking of all the animals and plants and Men -- so many Men -- that would die in the pursuit of this greater music. But he took a breath, and rose to his feet, and nodded.

"I'm ready for more."