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Melian leads him out into the forest; he doesn’t ask why. Lúthien watches the passing scenery from his arms, and babbles in almost recognisable words as she points out exciting new things. He murmurs to her in reply, but Melian remains silent, not even a hum or a hint of birdsong. They halt in a place of no particular distinction; thick and shadowy, with the faintest glimpse of stars visible through the interlocking branches of the canopy.
“This is the heart of the wood,” she says by way of explanation, and promptly seats herself on the mossy floor. He mimics her, their crossed knees brushing. Lúthien toddles off to investigate the undergrowth.
Melian barely moves for the next hour; her eyes are open, but they are unseeing, filled with some strange power that speaks of unfathomable planes of existence. Thingol is content to simply look on her, knowing such things are beyond his comprehension. She may have bound herself to him, but she is a creature too vast to be contained in this finite form.
Lúthien returns with flowers for her parents and drops into Thingol’s lap, joining his patient study of her mother. He tucks a bloom behind her ear as he absently strokes her hair.
Melian refocuses, blinking several times as she awakens from her trance. There is an unearthly magic gathered within her, and it radiates from her skin like she is starlight incarnate.
She holds a hand out to Thingol. Her fingers burn, but he barely notices.
“You must be my anchor,” she says solemnly.
He takes Lúthien’s little hand in his other one, holding on to his fairy child as if she might fly away. The light of Valinor is in her blood, but she is also of the Eldar; she belongs in the realm of the corporeal, even as her spirit ventures beyond.
Melian begins to sing, but her voice is swiftly overwhelmed by the roar of the energy flowing through her, through him, through the song and into the forest. It does not rage unchecked, consuming all in its way; Melian holds it to her will, but it seems otherwise to Thingol. She is unleashed as she cannot be around him - he is buffeted as if by a thunderstorm, yet if he could take his eyes off his queen he would see that not a leaf stirs.
Lúthien chimes in, and a tendril of magic strays to her command, a break in the pattern. Melian gently reels it back in, sensing the imprint of her daughter’s fate. They are all bound to the girdle now, and it to them; three still figures at the centre of the maelstrom, Eldar and Ainur and something in between, bending the forest around them.
Once again Thingol loses his sense of time and wakes dizzied, to find Melian watching him. Her hair crackles with the remnants of the enchantment, but even so she has never seemed more like one of the Eldar; dimmed somehow, earthly and tangible.
“It is done,” she says. “You are safe.”
You: Lúthien, his people - and himself.
Not long ago he would have smiled at the thought that he needed protecting, but the familiar darkness has begun to breed monsters. His people know how to fight off beasts armed only with teeth and claws; blades and legions are another matter, and yet they are no match for Melian. Their realm will remain unblemished, last bastion of all that is fair in a land succumbing to horror.