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Luthien never has nightmares. Perhaps her mother’s teas are really magic, perhaps her father’s fortress is too strong. This is a ranch and a kingdom in one; she can run far afield but never leave it, and in this way, she is kept safe.
(He was not well enough, while he remained in their care, to explore the land with her. If she had not kissed him so soon; if she had not let him fall in love with her, perhaps they would not have been discovered, and he would not have been cast out.)
No nightmares against her soft pillows, then. No nightmares under the silk curtains that her mother perfumes with lavender, for sleep. The double edge of this is that Luthien also does not remember her dreams. If Beren comes to her at night—and he must—she forgets the nearness of his touch by morning.
(How fares his hand? Does he think of her? Does he bear new scars?)
(She must not ever doubt that he lives.)
Doriath does not grow cold. Winter, like Beren, has fled elsewhere. It remains mysterious. Haleth and her rangers went into the teeth of a winter, headed for Nebraska—a place unknown to Luthien, save by name. That was a year ago, now.
Daeron did not immediately return from his own travels. Weeks slipped into months and Luthien embroidered gifts for her mother and father and for some of her father’s oldest workers. She worked a neckerchief for Haleth, soft plum-purple and bronze thread.
Will Haleth wear it? Likely not.
But it is something to do.
Daeron returns unannounced. It is morning, and it is warm enough that Luthien slips into her lightest slippers. She braids her hair in two plaits over her shoulders, and rushes down the hall, slowing her pace only when she draws near the sound of voices.
Daeron and her father, heads together, again. Luthien peeks around the corner of her father’s room, then joins her mother where the open fireplace provides a center for their family circle (even when no fire yet burns).
“Daeron came back safely.”
(But what of Beren? What of Feanor’s sons?)
“He did,” Melian answers. She has her loom today, and the thread she weaves is the color of a blushing wild rose. “My love, let me break this to you gently: Feanor’s sons are not all living, now. Those that remain are warlike and angry, clustered in Rumil’s old stronghold.”
Luthien feels a little stupid, and suddenly, very lonely.
“Did Daeron see them?”
“He was warned off the land. He went into the town nearby and stayed there for some time, learning what he could.”
“But that was months ago!” Beren, Beren, did he hear news of Beren?
“He had other errands for your father.” Her mother’s voice does not rise and fall with the pattern of her warp and weft. “Be at peace, Tinuviel.”
The sun sets early, and then the air grows cool. Alongside Daeron, Luthien wanders above the barns. She asks him a little of the lost Feanorians, and he tells her a little. She asks him about the mountains of the north, if he saw any new wonders among them, and he paints her a picture that she is, perhaps, too tired to see.
Night falls like this. Daeron’s mood shifts; changes like the wind. He paces more slowly; he bites his lip. She wonders what plagues him. She has been plaguing him from the outset, of course, for word of Beren that he will not give.
“Did you miss me?” he asks, hands and chin tucked deeply in his coat.
Luthien pauses mid-step. “Of course I did,” she says. “But you haven’t answered any of my questions, Daeron.”
“I heard no news of the boy, cherie.”
She reels, unsure if what she is feeling is grief. She is only a girl; how can she know grief? “Would you tell me if you did?”
He sighs. His whole body seems to shake with that sigh. This is why he reminds her of the wind. “Do I have a reason to lie?”
“It was all my fault,” Luthien breathes. “If I hadn’t…I ought to have kept him safe. I suppose I loved him too much, too selfishly.”
“Did you love him,” Daeron asks, in his soft accent, “Or did you love the freedom he promised?”
Haleth, riding north and east. Beren, gone and gone. Luthien, trapped amidst long grasses and sway-backed cattle, somehow smothered by the open sky.
“That isn’t fair,” she says. “That’s not a fair question, Daeron.”
“Pardon. You are very young, cherie. I only mean to say—sometimes love is both for a person and for what they can do for us. The younger you are, the more the balance may tip…”
It would not be who she is, to turn and run back to the house. Luthien stands her ground, her dark braids switching behind her. “You saw him here. Nearly dying, then healing. How could anyone not love him, Daeron? And you know me better than almost anyone. How could I not love him, simply for his dear heart?”
Daeron’s eyes are hooded. “I understand,” he says, more quietly still. “Shall we go back?”
“You can if you wish,” Luthien answers. Her eyes are smarting. She will not cry over Beren again, not when she does not deserve to.
…and for what they can do for us…
No.
(She used to let him rest his poor head on her lap, stroking his rough hair while he slept. She used to gently rub the tendons of his wrist, above his hurt hand, so that the muscles could stitch together again. If she teased him into rare boldness, he would kiss her throat and the hollow of her ear as well as her lips, even while his boyish face flushed shyly.)
Daeron does not do as he said he would. He trails her steps as she marches on ahead.
Her feet fall heavily.