Butterflies and Flutes by Flora-lass

Once there was a young Grey-elf, who fled the destruction of Doriath with his father and only a few companions. They journeyed long and far into the East, as they sought healing from their grief, and a simpler life such as their people had once lived but had almost lost.

This young elf carried with him his most treasured possession, a silver flute, which he delighted to play and others delighted to hear. He had adored the splendour of Menegroth, and still mourned all he had left behind; life as a Wood-elf held little appeal for him, when first they reached the mighty forest known as Greenwood the Great.

He would wander away whenever he could from the business of establishing a home, so ably directed by his father (who had the wisdom to understand his son's need for solitude and that, given time, they might all profit from it). In quiet forest glades he would sit and play his flute, sadly at first, as he remembered the music of his former life. But he had also been inspired by their journey, with its travelling songs and the tunes picked up from chance encounters - and the beauty and power of his playing increased.

At length, he began to feel at peace in this new forest, and he sensed that his presence was not displeasing to the trees. Sometimes he was aware of being watched or listened to, but for a long while he met no one on his wanderings save the woodland creatures. He marvelled at the butterflies, of a kind that he had never seen before; they would flutter around him as he played, and now and then alight for a moment on his shoulders or his hair. Especially he loved the white ones, which shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow, and seemed to him more beautiful than the jewels he had always prized. He felt their welcome, and so missed his old home less. And he composed a melody in their honour.

One day, when he had performed this to perfection, and a great cloud of butterflies had assembled to applaud, a group of Wood-elves at last emerged from the trees and approached him. ‘Greetings, stranger!’ they cried, in friendly tones. ‘Long have we watched you, and listened with surprise and pleasure, but today your music has soared to new heights. The butterflies assure us that you mean no harm, and perhaps are in need of friends? We would welcome you to feast with us, if you so choose.’

Their speech was unfamiliar, but their goodwill was clear, and he accepted gladly. (Indeed, he spent so long in their company that his father believed him lost - until he took his new friends to meet him, and there was great rejoicing). They came to understand each other well, as he told them tales of Beleriand and of his long journey, and they taught him about life in the forest and shared their own stories. Eventually, at the Wood-elves’ suggestion, he set aside his grey attire and dressed in green and brown as they did.

Most of all he loved to join them in music-making. They had examined his silver flute with wonder, and he had observed that all their instruments were crafted from wood. ‘The trees provide us with the means to make music,’ they explained, ‘and we offer our music back to them in thanksgiving. We need nothing else. You should try a wooden flute.’

So he did - and though at first it sounded rustic to his ears, and his fingers felt clumsy, the Wood-elves praised his efforts and urged him to persevere, for his skill was such that he should soon match the finest musicians among them. And as he played, he knew that the trees approved. He kept his silver flute for special occasions, and honoured it; but the wooden flute, which in time was made especially for him, became his chief delight.

***

Long years later, the Wood-elves asked his father to be their Lord, and in due time their King. And when it came to pass that the days of bliss were ended and an Enemy threatened, he and his father and many of their people went away to war.

The Prince, as he now was, carried his wooden flute with him, and kept up his practice and his people's spirits whenever he could. And on that dreadful day when his father the King was slain, he played a lament for him and for all those they had lost. No one who heard it has ever forgotten, and its like will never be heard again.

When he returned to the Greenwood, in sorrow and as King, the butterflies welcomed him home with joy, and gave him hope as he faced a new Age.

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