Strange Magic by oshun

(Daeron and Lúthien)

You're sailing softly through the sun.
In a broken stone-age dawn,
You fly so high.  —lyrics “Strange Magic” by Electric Light Orchestra.

Daeron exited the conference chamber where he had been trapped for hours with the king and all of his dullest counselors. Sitting on the bench outside of the door Lúthien awaited her pretty face a perfect picture of bored petulance. The child, spoiled and cosseted by all, would grow to be a perfect horror if someone did not begin to occasionally say “no” to her. He hated the thought that it might have to him. No one else seemed likely to try.

“You took forever!” she whispered, grabbing his hand. “I need you to come play music for me.”

“I’m exhausted and hungry, you evil little brat.”

“I have food, you insufferable old grouch!” She pointed at the basket at her feet. He caught the scent of freshly baked meat pies and saw grapes, small red apples, and a quarter of a wheel of cheese. “There is a bottle of wine under all of that as well.” She grinned and wrinkled her nose at him.

“Well . . .” he drawled. His idea of refusing her this time died an easy death. It was not worth the struggle. The head cook’s meat pies were incomparable and he was starving.

They stopped by his room to pick up his smallest dulcimer and headed in the direction of the forest.

“If you are going where I think you are,” he said, “it’s going to be too wet for dancing. It rained last night and early this morning.”

“It’s beautiful now! Don’t be an old grumpy stick-in-mud. If you are a little nicer, I might condescend to sing for you!”

He didn’t know if he should be outraged or pleased. She had a lovely voice but wasn’t nearly as good as he was, probably never would be, although one could never be sure of that with her! Then he glanced to the side and caught her teasing smirk.

The forest glade where she had led them—her favorite spot—felt soggy underfoot. The fallen log where he usually sat and played for her would be wet, as his bottom would be also in no time at all.

“I know what you are thinking. I will fix it.”

“You ought not to mess with nature for your own selfish pleasure, brat.” He could not resist a smile and a chuckle. She was charming and her magic impressive.

“Ha! As though my nana doesn’t ever!” She had a point. Not every cloud sent scurrying away to rain on someone else’s picnic was directed by Melian for entirely altruistic purposes. “Now go sit down, master bard. Your place is dry already.”

“You are a perfectly wicked child," he said.  “Your nana ought to teach you that every bit of sorcery used has its price.”

“What is the price of a tiny patch of dry grass to dance upon?”

He had no answer for that.

“And anyway I am not a child anymore. If you ever looked at me, you’d see that.”

She stuck her lower lip out at him in an inappropriate show of flirtatiousness. There were a number of other things that her mother might be a bit tardy as discussing with her—the birds and bees, as some called it, or how not all males would be as immune to her nascent charms as he was. Or as he had been, he corrected himself, when she struck a pose with her arms forming a charming arch over her head, the diaphanous fabric of her dress hugging her torso to reveal some distinct breasts where only recently there had been barely noticeable nubbins.