Moon in the heat of summer by Quente

Nimloth is a hot mess and Dior likes it.

Read Nimloth is a hot mess and Dior likes it.

The leaves were long, the grass was green, and Nimloth the Fair was being dragged through the halls of Menegroth toward Elu Thingol, Beleg gripping one arm and Mablung the other. They paused at the guard outside of the great hall.

“Again?” the guard said, eyeing Nimloth distastefully. The hemlock umbels had left their white petals in her hair, which would have been lovelier had her hair not been stained dark as a Golodhrim with mud. Her raiment was similarly torn, the green dress in shreds above her very practical leather pants. Her skin was mottled like a deer.

Beleg shot the guard a weary look. “All the way out near the south station. Thank the stars we were guarding her when the orcs came.”

“I tell you they would not have found me,” Nimloth said, equally weary. “I was up a tree, and very still.”

“You were shining in the moonlight like a beacon,” Mablung said, sighing.

Nimloth opened her mouth, and closed it again. They were in the great hall of carven trees, lit from above by yellow-green light so like sunlight that it may as well have been. They followed a path to Thingol’s throne carefully, avoiding the little carved rills that ran through the room. It was as like to a forest glade as the art of the Elves could make it, and yet, to Nimloth’s eyes, it was a still thing devoid of the real life of the forest.

Thingol sat looking perplexed, and flanking him was Nimloth’s father, of course. Both of them had similar expressions of exasperation, and Nimloth wondered how long she’d be confined to Menegroth this time.

When she bowed before the throne, gathering up what skirts were still left, laughter rippled through the gathered court. Nimloth ignored it, thinking about how real birds were far more beautiful, in all their imperfect honesty, than carved ones.

“My king,” Galathil said, looking sideways. “I would speak with my daughter privately.”

“There is just one thing that I would know,” Thingol said, resting his chin upon his fist. “What draws you to the wild, young Nimloth? Can you not stay nearer home?”

Nimloth thought of the sparrowhawk she’d followed from just outside the rocky cleft of Menegroth’s doors, down along the Esgalduin, to the very edge of the realm. “The hawk would not stay so close,” she explained. “And I wished to see it fly.”

“You followed the hawk to the far western border,” Thingol said, brows drawing together.

“She was in a tree,” Beleg said, “watching the hawk when the orcs came. There were two score of orcs in the party; we left none alive.”

Galathil’s face grew distressed as he heard of Nimloth’s close brush with danger, but Thingol looked expressionless, as if thinking of distant things.

“You are a precious child of our realm,” Thingol said finally, “and must not endanger yourself thus. Your father will mete out your consequences, but I would give you other occupation. Can you not assist your queen in her work about the girdle?”

Nimloth bowed her head. There was nothing safer than trotting along after Melian as she did her rounds of singing in her girdle; all of the plants and animals welcomed her gladly, and there was never strife in the forest when Melian was about.

But unexpectedly, Celeborn spoke. “Galadriel and I shall go visit Tol Galen soon, on our way to explore the Blue Mountains. Will you come with us as far as Luthien’s realm?”

That was farther than Nimloth had ever been from the kingdom of her birth, and she smiled at Celeborn then, feeling her fetters loosen just a little – and along with it, Beleg and Mablung’s hold on her arms. “I will go,” she said, “if my father allows it.”

Later, in their bower in a passageway off the main hall, Galathil was silent for a long while, gazing at the tapestry Nimloth’s mother had embroidered when she was very young. Swan-prowed ships floated on an azure sea, and beyond it lay Tirion upon Túna, fair and white.

Lagreth was gone, back to the Falathrim that were her people. The sea-longing had grown too much for her, and she had left Nimloth and Galathil safe in Menegroth to return to the sea. Nimloth had not seen her mother in many long decades, enough that Nimloth no longer missed her.

“I fear you have your mother’s restless spirit,” Galathil said finally, “And that if I let you go, you will not return.”

“I will return,” Nimloth said, and felt it shiver somewhere deep within her. “I will live the rest of my life in Menegroth.” She knew it to be true.

Her words seemed to reassure her father, and he bowed his head. “Do not tarry long in the wilds, my strong one. And … go wash your hair before you depart.”

~

Nimloth donned finery when they departed despite her best protestations; Lúthien could maintain her gowns and jewels while dancing about in the wild, but Nimloth never had the talent. Nimloth had no Maiar blood, and the bushes and brush that parted before Lúthien seemed to almost join forces to impede Nimloth’s way.

Besides, there was always a tree to climb, or a blackberry bramble to fall into, or a lake to wade in (Nimloth found singing and dancing in glades somewhat repetitive after a week or two).

And so Nimloth sat in a fine gossamer dress all in silver to make her a pale and shimmering moon, and looked around her at the company of the people of Finarfin, clad in gold with the crest of a sun at sunset. This was the company that had stayed with Galadriel during her years in Menegroth, and were now mingled with the Sindar of Celeborn’s house as one people.

“Remain with Galadriel’s folk,” Galathil said to Nimloth sternly at their farewell. “The country there is unprotected, and it is clear you know nothing of true danger.”

“And Lúthien’s folk will bring me home,” Nimloth muttered, sighing. She was all set to see the larger world, but already had a collar around her neck.

They set out with Melian singing a farewell, so that even the trees around her waved and swayed to bless their departure. Galathil watched after her silently, another pale beacon against the shadow of the great Hirilorn. He held up a hand and Nimloth waved back. At the very least, she’d be outside of the protected woods of her home, for the very first time.

~

Their progress was slow. By the first day, Nimloth’s dress was ripped when she’d sent her horse Gwedal on a wild chase through the woods after a fascinating pitch-black kine. By the second day, her hair was snarled with burdock to the point where even Galadriel’s handmaidens threw up their hands at it.

By the third day, they crossed the Aros and Nimloth finally felt the constraints of the blessed wood fall away from her shoulders. South of them lay the tall range of the Andram as it cut across the country. To the west lay the fens that led to the falls of Sirion, but their party was going east – along the gently sloping land at the bottom edge of the mountains.

The world was larger here, the vistas overlaying Nimloth’s senses with many different greens. Instead of forest there were vast plains leading to lakes and rivers and copses of low-branched hawthorn trees. The birds were different here too – from the fens came the long-legged storks, and from the mountains, the swallow-tailed kites, and kestrels, and ospreys.

When the company hunted for their dinner, Nimloth joined them, her dress now so impractical that Celeborn lent her a set of his leather. They were serviceable and kept her protected from the midges, but were very very warm in the increasing humidity of the summer days as they journeyed east.

Finally there was an enormous river in the distance – the Sirion. They crept toward it at an agonizingly slow pace. The company was in no great hurry to move through the land, and Galadriel paused to observe everything – every rock, and tree, and bird.

It was, Nimloth thought, as if Galadriel was bidding farewell to the land.

When they finally reached Amon Ereb, Nimloth saw other mountains to the east that she had never seen before. They marched south along the land to provide a lush backdrop to the many rivers and falls of Ossiriand, a land as green as a garden. The moment Nimloth saw the mountains, she felt another wave of foresight. Somewhere over there, in Ossiriand, lay her future.

~

“We shall rest here before we cross the Sirion,” Galadriel ordered one afternoon, and many fair tents were raised for what looked like a relatively long encampment.

Nimloth sighed. They were so close, and it was very warm, and her horse shifted restlessly on the soft grass.

“Uncle,” Nimloth said to Celeborn, raising her chin, “I am going hunting across the river.”

Celeborn observed her thoughtfully, taking in the tangled hair and obstinate chin and restless horse, and then spoke a moment silently to Galadriel.

Then he looked up and smiled. “All is well, Nimloth – we are nigh to Lúthien’s realm. Go and ford the river at the shallows yonder. We shall meet you again at Tol Galen.”

~

Dior was guarding the herd of deer from the cover of a bush when he saw the hunter.

They were friends of his father, that small herd. The mothers were does of eight and nine years, and their six fawns from the tall, ten-pointed stag had been born a summer past.

“Why do we guard them, father?” Dior asked. He loved the deer for their velvet noses, and for their large and trusting eyes. But he knew, deep within, the song of the forests around Tol Galen that sang in his blood: the deer ate the small brush and new green leaves of the saplings, and the wolves ate the deer, lest the forest suffer in its turn.

“We do not guard them from their natural foes, son,” said Beren. “We guard them from Elves who would hunt them.” The lines of Beren’s face were growing deeper, that year. News from the North and West had come by swift riders from Menegroth – a dragon waited in the cold countries, and Melian felt him, brooding as he sat.

The King of Elves, Elu Thingol, felt insecure in his underground throne: the battle of unnumbered tears had slain the Golodhrim who had stood between Thingol and the northern Darkness. Three great fastnesses of the Sindar had fallen. His riders had asked – nay, begged – for Lúthien to return to him, even though her Elven life was gone.

And, stranger tidings still, a Man who had been in Menegroth after Beren, one named Túrin, had mysterious dealings with the death of the Elf Saeros, and fled. Beren had much to concern him, and Dior could feel it seething like a restless wind at the edges of his mind.

And so Dior had left his father and mother, brooding and worried, on their island, and went forth into the land between the Adurant and Duilwen as they wandered down the bones of the Ered Luin. Bow unstrung, and unclad save for his pack in the heat of the summer days, Dior dug his feet deep into the rich loam of the earth, listening, listening.

The birds spoke of the hunter long before the deer did. They sang of one who rode upon a grey horse, silver hair streaming in the wind, deadly and precise. The rider had come from the north and west over the river Galion, and had felled a goose flying high and wild turkey scratching in the brush along the way.

So Dior found his feet trending toward the rider, thinking to intercept and guide, and spare some of the geese who were flying northward for the season of warmth – surely it was a rider from Doriath, if the description was right. Silver hair – it could be the Lord Celeborn, whom Dior had met once or twice in Melian’s retinue when she visited the island of her daughter. Or it could be Celeborn’s brother, Lord Galathil, he of the sorrowful eyes.

The thought of eating deer was strange to Dior. His mother, seeing the power within him, taught him some of the Songs. It was right that Elves ate deer, like any predator. But Dior was not entirely an Elf; he was born with the power of a steward of the land, and was biden by Lúthien to eat not of the life he protected, save that which grew from the earth and renewed itself gladly after the harvesting.

The hunter was riding, and Dior heard the horse first. He turned, catching a glimpse of the swiftly striding form – a grey, beating thunder on the land – and upon the horse’s back, a figure of grace and might, bow strung and upraised, pointing with keen vision directly at his charge.

The rider loosed the arrow before Dior could call a warning, and so he did what he needed to without a second thought – he leapt from the bush where he’d been hiding, and yelled to startle the deer into motion.

She ran; the herd ran; the arrow sank into the ground behind Dior with a deep wet thwock.

And then the rider came up to him, and Dior saw that this rider too was naked. She was an Elven maid with wild tangles in her silver hair, strong and powerful of muscle, and looking exasperated. She lowered her bow as she came near.

“That was my dinner,” she said, staring down from the horse. Then she blinked, and dismounted, shaking her hair around her like a mantle to clothe herself. Walking closer, and closer, to where Dior sat upon the ground, her dark eyes were as bright and soft as the doe’s.

“I am Dior,” he said in a similar accent, that of his mother’s people. “You may not hunt upon our land, it is held for the animals in thanks for the lives they spent upon my mother and father. Who are you, maid?”

She seemed struck dumb, though, for she knelt beside him, staring long at him – into his eyes, and at his body where he sat pillowed by the tall grass of summer.

For a long moment they stared at each other. Dior could see that she was young in the manner of her kind, but not so young in the years of Men.

Nimloth drew breath, then. “I am Nimloth of Doriath. I came to accompany the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn as they ride to Tol Galen, before they depart over the mountains to the east. Galadriel desired to speak to your mother. I… got tired of the slowness of their company, and…”

Dior smiled at her then. “And then you slipped away, to meet them at your own pace? Come and gather food with me then, Nimloth of Doriath. I will make you a meal to replace the deer herd that I guard.”

“Thank you. I should probably wash. And…” Nimloth shook her hair, “dress, if you think it necessary. Do you know a pool nearby?”

“I will show you after we forage, I deem you will only get dirty again if I show you before. And as for garment – lady, it is your decision.” Dior said it evenly. Beauty did not sway him much, nor did an unclad body. But Nimloth’s spirit sang with a fierceness that Dior liked, and he smiled at her.

Nimloth’s smile was as starlight in her grey eyes. “Then, let us forage.”

They spent the rest of the long summer day together, wandering west along the north bank of the Adurant. Dior showed her what the tops of tubers looked like, and pulled a few for roasting in embers. They gathered enough greens and mushrooms and wild herbs for a hearty meal, and berries they ate as they walked. Nimloth’s horse obliged them by carrying what they gathered, and walked behind them to graze here and there on the grass near the water.

As they wandered, they spoke. Nimloth readily answered all of Dior’s questions about life in Menegroth. She spoke of the royal court of Queen Melian and King Thingol, and of his many wild moods. “He did not trust your father, and sought to remedy his misdeed by taking in Túrin. Alas! It should have been the opposite. Túrin proved to have a darkness within him that not even the power of Melian could ease.”

“And yet, I understand why Elu Thingol might have wanted to keep Luthien away from a Man with such a short life. I live with them and watch them even now – my mother no longer has the life of the Elves. Perhaps it would have pained my grandfather to see her fade so swiftly. I know that it pains me.”

“Swiftly?” Nimloth’s face turned to concern, and she looked up from the carrot she was pulling. “I think he should treasure them all the more for the swiftness of their passing from Arda.”

“Perhaps.” Dior smiled at her again, feeling a small swelling of hope in his heart – for what, he did not understand. “It is good to meet one of my mother’s kin who thinks so. For I will never go to Mandos, and follow my father instead to the west of the west, where Men go. And I fear that this is what Elves see, when they look upon me. I have the life of the Elves and the strength of the Maiar, but in the end, my fate is that of Men.”

Nimloth sat back entirely, then, and looked long upon him. “In you I see three races mingled to what is surely their best form. We Elves think so much about eternity, and living unto the end of Arda Marred, so that we readily spend a whole season ignoring the world as it passes by. Men do not have that luxury, and I wonder, in the end, who lives more? Perhaps we do not live as fully as Men, knowing their time is short.”

Dior could tell by the clear burning of her spirit that she spoke truth, and not flattery. It warmed him, and he wanted…he wanted something more. He stood then, and offered her his hand. “We have enough to cook. Shall we bathe? There is a pool not far from here where soapwort grows.”

Nimloth raised her hand to take his, and saw that it was full of carrots. She laughed and called over her horse. “Yes, it is time to bathe, me and Gwedal both.”

They first scrubbed Gwedal with handfuls of dry grass, and then bathed themselves with the pods of the soapwort until Dior could see Nimloth’s skin in all its sun-warmed golden glory. Dior took down his dark hair from its braids, and hesitated, glancing in Nimloth’s direction.

She looked up, and caught his meaning. “Ah – I’ll wash your hair if you wash mine? I can never get all the knots out of it. I’d cut it, if my father didn’t like it so much.”

“It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful part of you,” Dior said without thinking. Then he laughed, blushing. “Ah, I mean – I have well enjoyed your company, this day.”

Nimloth’s face was red, and it continued down her neck to her chest set with archer’s muscles. “You are unlike anyone I have met. My eyes see that you are young, even by the count of Men. And yet, you have wisdom in you that is the match of the most learnéd of Elu Thingol’s court, if not more. For I see your compassion, and that makes you wisest.”

Dior was blushing now too, and busied himself with plucking more soapwort and gathering up a few sticks to assist with the unknotting of Nimloth’s wild curls. He beckoned her over and sat behind her, slowly working through the knots from the ends upward.

He wrestled long with the burdock, but finally Nimloth’s silver hair was soft in his fingers, and where it fell against his body, it made his skin rise in bumps. It was not a feeling Dior had felt before, and as more and more of her long locks untangled, his body was awash in them, and he wanted to bury his face into the clean curls.

It did not help that she was making soft, pleased noises as he worked.

“Your fingers are gentle,” Nimloth said. “I like your touch.”

And suddenly, Dior realized he felt entirely too naked. When he was finally done with her hair, he felt hesitant to turn away from it. So Nimloth turned, and they were face to face in the water with matching rosy faces.

“Let me tend to your hair, then,” Nimloth said, reaching up to touch a strand of Dior’s straight, dark locks as they fell over his shoulder. Her fingers lingered, moved down, and suddenly were on his skin. And the feeling was like a strange fire, and an ache, and Dior made a noise that was not words.

Nimloth took a deep breath then, and let her fingers trail down his skin to his hip. “Turn around. I will wash your hair, and we will eat, and we will go to your parents on Tol Galen.” She bit her lip then and turned him with a gentle shove.

It took a great effort for Dior to turn.

Dinner that night was rather more silent than their day had been. Clothed, they were suddenly strange to each other, and it felt more formal when Dior passed Nimloth a potato stuffed with mushroom and carrots and herbs, no matter that they ate it with their fingers.

But Nimloth smiled at him across the fire, and Dior let himself get lost in the clean warmth of her spirit.

---

Chapter End Notes

They met! My work is done.

...Except I'm leaving this open-ended, just in case I have the stomach to add a chapter that follows them through the birth of Elwing, at least.

Frustration

In 494 of the First Age, Dior spends time in Menegroth learning what it means to be Thingol’s heir. (And that it is mostly frustrating.)

Read Frustration

Chapter Text

Dior was hiding in a far unfinished chamber when Nimloth found him. She’d been leaving him gifts from the forest all that month, small things to ease his entry into the court of his grandfather. Nimloth knew that the spaces of Menegroth, as mighty as they were, could be strange indeed to someone used to wider and wilder vistas.

“Nimloth,” Dior greeted her. He was sitting in a puddle of light like a cat, and staring out the high opening that allowed sunlight into the dark place.

Nimloth came to him, steps light, and sat beside him on the mossy rocks. The sound of the small stream that flowed through the cavern was a soft murmur, and soothing.

“Do you miss your home so much?”

“I am restless,” Dior admitted. “We sit in council day after day to discuss the world beyond Menegroth, and yet my grandfather moves not, stirs not, to ride to the succor of Beleriand. He sees time in centuries; I sense we have but years.”

Nimloth put her hand on Dior’s shoulder and drew him against her. “Perhaps something will tap against the mighty rock that is King Thingol and set him rolling, like the first pebble in an avalanche.”

“I thought it would be me,” Dior said, “but it is not. Perhaps I am too like my grandmother to hold his thoughts.” He turned a little in Nimloth’s encircling arm and smiled at her. Her spirit was burning particularly brightly that day, warming him more than the faint, distant patch of sun.

They regarded each other for a long moment, and Nimloth took another breath then – a long and shaky inhale, and lay back upon the rock. “I used to come here as a child, too. When my father and mother would argue about allowing her to return to the Falas, the land of her people. It was quiet here, and the stream lulled me to sleep.”

“She was not allowed to go?” Dior asked. He lay beside Nimloth then, and rolled to his side so that they were closer. After a moment, he put his arm carefully over her stomach, warm and soft, and settled himself against her side.

Nimloth nestled into him, and she felt so vividly alive that Dior could not help burying his face in her hair. Oh, the smell – like a summer day on Tol Galen, with his mother singing to the bees.

“Ah, she went, but at a very bad time – right before the war, when the Enemy’s power was rising. Her party was beset by a band of orcs, and she died. Those who survived said she took down half the company with her – died with her sword in her hand. My father says that I have her spirit, but I hope I also have some of his gentleness.”

“You do,” Dior said, raising his head to lean upon his hand and look down at her face. “You have been so kind to me since I arrived. I particularly like the little fox.” It had taken to sleeping beside Dior in his bower, curled into his stomach.

“I hoped you might,” Nimloth said, and her grey eyes seemed to reflect the starlight again, even in the midst of the cavern. Dior blinked away before he could fall into them.

They were on the verge of something, Dior could tell. It was building in him like a storm, and he could sense it in Nimloth’s sudden, careful stillness. Dior’s hand moved in a slow caress over Nimloth’s warm stomach, clad as it was in her hunting leathers, and slowly – slowly – he bent his head toward her.

“Prince – you are needed,” a voice called from the corridor.

Dior jolted to sitting, taking a deep breath to tamp down the sudden surge of resentfulness. “What is it?”

“Two ladies of the race of Men have come. King Thingol bids you attend to him in his hall, they bring tidings out of Hithlum.”

Nimloth scrambled to her feet, her face alive with curiosity. “More of your father’s race!” She said. “I wonder why they have come to Menegroth, of all places? Could they be kin of Túrin?” She reached her hand down to help Dior to his feet.

“I feel they will not remain long,” Dior said, taking Nimloth’s hand. He saw in a flash of insight a strange and sorrowful future: a dragon – mist – running. “We shall give them what aid we may.”

They stayed hand in hand as they walked the corridors to Thingol’s hall.

Time was so short, Dior thought, only dropping Nimloth’s hand as he stepped into the forest glade made of stone. He saw the two women standing in front of the thrones of Thingol and Melian. For a moment, he met his grandmother’s eyes, and saw the truth lodged within – the coming and going of these women were part of the song of Arda, and little could be done to aid them.

But still, but still, Dior thought stubbornly. He would try.

Dior came to the older one, drawn by the solid burn of her spirit. There was something familiar about her, and he thought of tales told from his youth – “Lady Morwen of Dor-lómen, well met,” Dior said, and bowed. “We are kindred. My father Beren was cousin to your father Baragund, if I recall correctly. We are second cousins, then.”

Morwen turned, and Dior was dazzled by her beauty, set as it was within the fading of the flesh that took Edain as they aged – a fading that was even now taking his mother and father. Morwen was lovely as a tree in autumn fading into winter, and her limbs were unbent.

“You must be Beren’s son, and son of the Princess of these halls,” Morwen said, and did him a courtesy in turn.

“I named him Elúchil, my heir,” King Thingol said from his throne in his low, resonant voice. It filled the room despite the softness of his speech, and Dior often wondered whether the room was bent around his throne by Melian’s magic, or whether his grandfather’s voice had power of its own.

Thingol’s expression was grave and thoughtful. “Be doubly welcome to my house, lady. I had forgotten that Beren was your kin; I would have greeted you in honor for Túrin alone. Long have we sought to have you join us here – what has finally bent your steps to my domain?”

Morwen regarded Thingol for a long moment, and then smiled. “Lord, I know not what news you have had from Hithlum these past years, but alone with my household, I held the Easterlings in the circle of the Mithrim through parlay and misdirection. They would have gone to the East through your fair forests, had I not sewn word of the terrible sorceress that dwelt within.” She inclined her head toward Melian.

“That they heeded you is proof of your power,” Melian said, her voice as quietly resonant as Thingol’s. “And yet – at what cost did you remain? Your son we fostered, until he chose to depart from us without word. And yet we sought him long, with many march-wards, as well as our best. Long years of the sun has Beleg Strongbow been lost to us, for his love of Túrin. What more would you have us do?”

Dior took a breath, and then let it out in soundless frustration. He would volunteer to seek Túrin and Beleg himself, if need be – surely tidings would reach a grandson of Melian more readily than any Elf scout, and he had long practice moving in the wild.

But just then another scout came in, crying that a host of orcs had been sighted upon the northern border, marching over the Iant Iaur and into the woods of their home. Dior felt the blood of his father stirring within him then, and turned to Nimloth.

“Shall we hunt them together, Nimloth?” Dior asked, thinking of the bow in his quarters.

Nimloth smiled in answer.

~

Nimloth in full armor, bow drawn and nocked, was fierce and deadly, and Dior found it difficult to focus on the task before him. The orcs were lingering on the eastern side of the Iant Iaur, conferring as they faced the might of the girdle in all its confusion — three score of them milling in confusion along the bank of the Esgalduin.

The march-wards and scouts arrayed themselves in silent formation in the trees, invisible against the beechwood in their grey cloaks of Melian’s make. The only part of them visible were their faces, but those too were painted with the colors of the wood. Nimloth was so painted, and Dior found that he wanted to trace the pattern of it around her cheeks and lips — she looked so deadly, so intent, in the colors of the forest.

With a harsh battery of drums the orcs gathered together again, forming their company in a line three across. It was clear that they intended to skirt the northern line of the old road as it traced the top of the forest of Region toward Himlad, rather than descend south through the wood.

Morwen’s words had proven themselves true, Dior thought grimly. Without her misdirection to keep the orcs at bay, they made free of the land as if assured of no retribution. It seemed that Mablung had had enough of their blatant disregard of Doriath’s forces — he raised his hand in a fist and released it silently, and the arrows of the march-wards sang through the trees to meet the orcs as they stood.

The cries and death agonies of the orcs soon drowned out the thrum of the bowstrings, and Dior unsheathed his sword to leap forward into the fray. The orcs were a hardy bunch, and the fighting felt like a release of all the tension he’d been carrying within him since coming to Menegroth — he was alive, and fighting for his life, and the death of Morgoth’s spawn was a balm to his spirit.

And along with the fierce desire for battle that his Man’s blood gave him, Dior heard another low song — it was the song of Arda, the wash of the tide as two musics met and clashed, dissonance for once overwhelmed by the strong melody of Eru Illúvatar.

The music took him, and Dior felt himself become fell within it — his sword raised to force the melody note by note against the bitter forces of darkness and unraveling.

When Dior felt himself emerge, panting, from the battle-haze, he saw that he was alone in a ring of dead foes, and the march-wards of Thingol were approaching him cautiously from the wood.

“Prince, it is done,” said Mablung. “And many slain by your hand. You are indeed a child of Beren and Lúthien, our mightiest warriors.”

Dior blinked, wiping a trace of blood and sweat from his eyes. Indeed, none now stood alive in all the company, and some were already dragging corpses into a great pyre to burn.

But Nimloth approached too, and Dior saw her then as a pure flame of joy. He dropped his sword and held his arms open for her, and laughed when she stepped into them.

Covered in blood as they were, Nimloth held his face steady with her hands. And then, her eyes meeting his, she smiled at him. “Lúthien’s son, I admit defeat. I am overcome by you,” she said. “As if I had any other fate, from the moment we met naked in the wood.”

Their first kiss was sweet and swift, but Dior put his hand into Nimloth’s hair, heedless of the blood he lay upon the silver fall of it, and held her still as he met her lips again — and again — until he realized that he would soon make a spectacle of them before the wardens if he continued.

Breath coming more swiftly, he dropped his head to Nimloth’s shoulder.

And then, Mablug raised up a cry of victory and rejoicing, and all joined in to celebrate a small victory in what Dior feared was a longer defeat. But for the moment, the song was pure, and Nimloth’s body was warm against his, and the life of Arda sang loud within him.

~

”I hear you are betrothed,” Thingol said to him dryly the next morning when the company returned to Menegroth. “At the very least, I hope so, for Galathil will have your head if not.”

”I would have no other, but only Nimloth the fair,” Dior said, watching Nimloth as she helped bandage the wounded at the gates of Menegroth, on the green lawn beneath the great tree of Hirilorn. “Nimloth at peace is like the clay of Beleriand formed into its most beloved shape. Nimloth at war embodies the song of Oromë. Her touch —“

”Nay, grandson,” Thingol said, laughing. “Spare me that. The union is fitting, save for one thing only — you are full young in Elven eyes, and Man though you might be, we must wait until all judge you worthy before you wed. It will not be long, and I counsel you to bear it with patience.”

“Well I understand the reasoning, and yet my heart forbodes that time is short,” Dior answered steadily. Well, no matter. His mother had never listened to her father, and Lúthien’s line would not start listening now.

Thingol raised his brow at Dior, who returned his look with a sweet smile. “I brought you a token from battle,” he said, turning the topic. One of the orcs, the leader of the company, had carried a knife of Elven make. “I return to you this weapon, looted long ago. Returned to you, may the spirit of the one who bore it be at peace.”

The knife’s hilt was shaped like a leaf, and Thingol took it carefully in his hand, his face showing for a moment the long grief he carried through his years in Arda. “Aye,” he said at last, touching the hilt with gentle fingers. “May the bearer be avenged. Well done, Eluchíl my heir.”