Daeron of Doriath
Sept 18, 2018 0:34:29 GMT -5
Post by Daeron on Sept 18, 2018 0:34:29 GMT -5
Character Name: Daeron
Name Meaning: 'shadow man'
Age: 10,855 solar years
Date of Birth: 1102 Year of the Trees
Race: Sindarin (Eglath) Elf
Residence: The Wilds
Profession: Minstrel and Lambengolmor
Appearance: Standing at 6'6, dark hair, with grey eyes which saw the light of stars above Cuivienen; stars which twinkled to his music, and a dimple on his left cheek. His skin was once pale white complexion now tanned from two ages living outside any type of walls, in the wilds and the southlands. He has long since worn out of his elvish garb, wearing what cloth he has come across in kingdoms of men. Daeron has never been without his flute, and since the day he left Doriath he has carried a sword at his hip, but it has not once been tarnished with blood.
Personality: Daeron has had a lingering melancholy over his spirit since the days when Doriath was lost, his mind still loiters in bittersweet dreams of the realm of Thingol and Melian, where love and friendship were lost. He has nostalgic feeling and memories of people lost in those days. Some who knew him then would have considered him mad in the time therafter, and while he admits that there was some madness driving him, it was mostly devastation. Daeron played a roll in the events of the downfall of Menegroth, and where he was once ashamed of those trials, it was long ago and he has come through them, taking life as it is. Lúthien forgave him of his deeds even before time wore her away. There are grudges held in his heart yet for the sons of men and the naugrim.
He is and has always been somewhat whimsical in speech and manner, his mind caught up in a snare of music and lyrics and poetic prose and rhyme; the manner of his speech while given meaning to himself, is rarely straightforward to an even thinker who does not give pause to understand his nuances. His manner once disconcerting to even Thingol. Daeron lives his life through song and there is something of his music and emotion that still conducts the music of nature around him, a joyous song piped can elicit the twinkling of songs, and a sad melody can cause the insects to stand silent. He is compelled to song, and song and memory are his purpose. Perhaps there are a few more memories which need to be put to lyric before he wearies so much that he needs travel west to meet his kin again, but the time is coming soon.
Parents: Tindis and Fuinor : Both sailed west after the War of Wrath
Children: Not sons of blood, but fostered to adulthood Elurín and Eluréd
History:
Daeron was born of the second generation of elves, those who came from the original one hundred and forty four which awakened; thus being, he never knew a grandsire. His parents were young and of the unbegotten. They had awakened beside each other; first laying eyes upon the stars, and then upon their spouse. Never knowing the trials of love and rejection, they simply were, created for each other. Daeron was born at beneath the stars and the stars were the first lights he saw, gleaming as pinpricks above him. He sang before he could speak, and he always loved the music of the waters wherein at Cuiviénen in the Sea of Helcar he would splash and play as a child. He was born in the year in which the three ambassadors, Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë were summoned to Valinor, and he remembers their return when he came to be about twenty years of age. At thirty years, still an elfling, he bid farewell to Helcar and the elves began to pass west.
The elves in those days became sundered from one another, and as they traveled west they were slow moving. It took hundreds of years to cross Arda, bit by bit those who had been born by the sea broke off into different sects which headed south, and east, afraid of the smouldering which came from Utumno. While Ingwë and Finwë traveled more swiftly to the far west, Elwë lingered, until one day he was lost to them. Daeron, well grown by this time, was among those who searched for him while he stood in trance in the forests of Nan Elmoth, and it was over two hundred years until he appeared again and became known as Thingol, their King, with Melian queen at his side. There was a glimpse of something in the face of their queen which caused them to still their westerly seeking; the light in the face of Melian was enough, and those who followed Thingol became known as the Eglath, or the Forsaken, for they no longer desired to take the passage to Valinor.
Daeron was appointed the chief loremaster of Thingol, and in the year in which the delving of Menegroth was begun, Daeron devised a method of keeping written record, called the Cirth, which was higher valued by the Naugrim (the dwarves) who visited the realm of Thingol than by his own people, later on a version of his letters were also adapted and used by the Noldor for the came easier to carve into stone than did the Tengwar of Fëanor. Nonetheless Daeron’s heart was bruised for his accomplishment had gone unbidden by the Sindar whom he was closet to.
The sun and the moon then rose and shone upon the earth, and the Noldor returned from across the sea (and the Sindar were yet unaware of the kinslaying which had taken place) there was a feast of reuniting to celebrate the alliances between the elves. Daeron and Mablung were sent as ambassador's to Mereth Aderthad to revel alongside Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, and in this time Daeron became acquainted with and befriended one of the high minstrels of Tirion across the sea, Maglor. It was a friendship which persisted for some time until the treacheries of the Noldor came to the ears or Thingol and his court, and contact between those two were ended.
Once she had come into adulthood, Daeron’s eyes set upon the figure of Lúthien, daughter of the king, and there his heart was stolen. Much time did they spend together, yet what Daeron saw as love, Lúthien saw as friendship. He let his heart believe it was true, that Lúthien loved him in return, and Daeron passed many a day and year fluting as she danced.
Until the time came when in the Forest of Neldoreth where she danced in the night. So ethereal and beautiful the dance which led forth into her song, that Daeron stilled his piping in a trance to watch and listen as Lúthien’s voice carried through the clear night air. A creaking and a cracking in the wood gave way to the sound of heavy boots and Daeron’s enchantement vanished; spied a stranger within the girdle of Melian. It was Beren, a man of the north, who had somehow entered the realm unbidden. Daeron chirped out a warning to Lúthien, bidding her come away, to follow him, for danger lurked. But Lúthien stayed, and she hid, but as Beren moved through the thicket, his hand touched the arm of Lúthien. Daeron’s eyes were opened in that moment to the way Lúthien looked upon the mortal man, which was not the way she looked upon him.
Some seasons passed, and time stood still, but when the year turned Beren returned, and Daeron crept as a shadow through the forest, his grey eyes which held the waters of Cuivienen in the night shone with fire and rage as he watched Beren and Lúthien meet within the forest; as he watched them dance together, where once had been just she, and laugh in mirth together. Daeron’s own laughter was stilled, and deep melancholy came over him. Daeron cursed the trees, cursed the voices of the forest, and cursed the music which he himself played, and Doriath stood in a silence noticed by all others in the realm. No longer did the Esgalduin laugh as water flowed over rock and stone, no longer did the sound of the bees hum a melody. The birds of Melian perched silent, and the quaking leaves above could no longer dance but only sway in somber breezes.
Upon the silence, the minstrel was sent for and found where he moped upon the grassy slopes beneath the beech trees, and he was brought before Thingol, questioned for the silence and what it forboding it brought, and finally Daeron answered with dry humor and riddle, overcome with jealous of the stranger in their midst. The king was upset that he did not give straight answer, and Daeron was ashamed, looking to Lúthien for relief, as the elleth fair gave word herself of the mortal man in the land. Thingol angered dismissed all but Daeron from the room, and when alone the heavy hearted minstrel was given orders to take by secret archers and guards into the forest, to follow Lúthien. Yet all was in vain, as Lúthien was honorable to her word and brought Beren by hand before the king herself. The elves gathered to hear what was to come, Daeron stood with pallid face and frail fingers against a pillar as Beren asked Thingol for his daughter’s hand, deep jealousy burning within him, as the King pronounced that the mortal man should have earned death, that he was full of the deceit of Morgoth; that his sneaking ways into the Girdle of Melian had been learned by the orcs. The minstrel growled out of turn, “Death,” in agreement that he should be executed, and Lúthien looked at him woebegotten.
Though the curse of silence was lifted, Daeron’s flute no longer played in Doriath, and no longer did Lúthien sing. Beren left Doriath to fulfill the mission of Death which was set upon him by the King, as if an invisible bar and chain were over his head he would retrieve the Silmaril to have Luthien’s hand. When news came upon the birds of Melian that Beren had become captive, Lúthien mourned and seeking in the forest she found the minstrel and pleaded with him to play music for her again as once they did. Daeron did not wish to play, but he did for her sake, though the songs that trilled from his flute were low and mournful, and the forest wept. Finally Lúthien spoke to her old friend of her plan to seek out Beren, to travel to the dungeons where he was held and free him, and Daeron told her that he had no love in his heart for the mortal man, but he would defend her from perils, and keep her from wandering into hell, but Lúthien did not understand his meaning.
The second betrayal of Lúthien to Thingol came quickly on the lips of Daeron, as he bid the King to keep his daughter safe and from ruin. What Daeron did not realize was was the nature of Thingol to keep his daughter under lock and key. His own daughter taken captive, taken into the north of Doriath to the tallest beech where Lúthien and Daeron would once sing together, she was kept on guard in an enclosure within the tree. Daeron stayed with her day by day, playing his flute to keep her company and grieving for their fates, and Lúthien forgave him a second time for his betrayal, allowing only Daeron to climb the tree and speak with her through the bars.
Bidden by Lúthien as time passed to make her a loom that she could weave away the hours, Daeron questioned her, considering her methods and the riddle she had spoken in answer. The minstrel’s heart told him something was amiss, and he thought to speak again to the King on her behest, but this time he did not betray her. He did as she had asked, and a loom he crafted. Then days passed as he called beneath the tree for her, but afterwards she did not answer, until a day when grey mist descended and when the sun shone again Lúthien had vanished.
Daeron with heavy heart was among the first to go in search of her. The minstrel searched for her beyond the reaches of Doriath, and among all those who attempted to find Lúthien again, Daeron searched the furthest and longest, until he had passed the mountains of the Ered Luin and no word came to him of what transpired in the pits before Sauron, of the fate of Lúthien and Beren, and none saw him again in Menegroth until on the mouth of the dwarves which traisped the Ered Luin, word came to Daeron’s ears of the Nauglamir; the necklace inlaid with a Silmaril, and Daeron realized that Beren must have succeeded in his quest; and he knew that Lúthien was truly lost to him. Daeron mourned, but he began to move west again; for Thingol had always promised his friendship, but when he made way to the enchanted realm, Daeron came to find that the hedge of Melian was gone. The birds sang of her departure, and word to his ears that Thingol was dead. The magic and enchantment which guarded them safe had been destroyed with the invasion of the dwarves, and it was Dior, the son of Lúthien and Beren who ruled a now torn Kingdom in his father’s stead. Daeron could not deign to enter the kingdom of Dior, to look upon the face of one who held the light of Lúthien. The last twinges of his jealousy set within for the child she had borne with Beren. Having lived already long years away from the caves of Menegroth, Daeron stayed himself a shadow in the trees, simply watching and waiting, his flute silent as he decided if he would fall into service with the young King. If Lúthien had been anything to him; she was a loyal friend, and he knew that Dior deserved his allegiance as well as she or any other.
But as Thingol’s downfall came from the necklace he would not release to the dwarves; When Dior would not release the Silmaril to the Noldor; When rivers of blood poured from the gates of Menegroth as the Feanorians sought their Silmaril during the second kinslaying, Daeron, the watchful; the spy; the shadower. Even Daeron did not see soon enough the encroachment of the Noldor, as kept himself to the treetops, grieving that his King and kin were lost. When the armies of the northern elves came upon them there was nothing he could do to warn them. Daeron could make no songs of this despair, there were no words to put to music for the sights he witnessed.
It was he who saw the treachery of servants of Celegorm as they carried the twin sons of Dior, Elurín and Eluréd, from the great gates and abandoned them crying within the forests which were now darkened for the lack of Melian's fence. Daeron followed through the treetops; silent and sure as if he were walking upon the ground and when the day had faded and the footsteps of the Feanorians were long spent, he descended and gathered the children to him; grandsons of Lúthien; comforting them, taking them deeper into the forests and feeding them from clear springs and the fruit and nut of tree and vine.
Traveling on foot ever eastward with the weary elflings, they passed to the very reaches of Doriath and came to the forest of Nan Elmoth, where once Thingol had met Melian when their King had been lost to them. The valley of star dusk, with its trees which grew so thick and tall that no light reached the forest floor seemed as safety to Daeron, and here he settled in hiding with the children beneath the trees shadows.
The children grew, unharmed by the world, and Daeron called them Haedhion (Elurín, Son of the Fenced Enclosure) and Gathrochil (Eluréd, Cave Heir) to bring no knowledge of their existence to any who might spy for the Feanorians. Still, he taught them well of their lineage, and he taught them the songs and histories of their people, and most those of Lúthien, and he sang them songs of her, and how she had woven her hair with magic into sleepy twilight when it was time for them to rest. When they were of an age, and the time came for the twins to make their choice concerning which race they would belong, they remembered the choices that Luthien had made, and chose to remain with the Eldar for the sake of their foster father; who they knew was still ravaged by the loss of Lúthien. It was in the forest of there where Daeron began to put her story to words, writing the “Lay of Leithian,” which would pass on from the mouths of the twins in later years to become sung all across the face of Arda in their recall.
When they were 83 years old, living long in the forests of Nan Elmoth as elves of the forest, unaware of the fate of their sister Elwing, and of the third kinslaying, word came upon them by the last birds of Melian that yet lived within the forest; of the War of Wrath between the Valar and Morgoth, and the rising seas, and Daeron, Gathrochil, and Haehdion set forth for higher grounds, coming eventually to the north and the pine forests of Dorthonian, where elven refugees would gather together. Seeking higher and higher ground, they thought they would perish beneath the waves until the day when the waters finally stilled their rising, and all that was left of Beleriand was the Western Isles.
What was left of Beleriand became the small islands of Tol Morwen and Tol Himling, and the isle where they dwelt, Tol Fruin.
Here would the paths of Daeron and the twins part; for Daeron mourned the loss of the forests of Doriath, of Nan Emloth, and moreso, he was angry. He had vengeance in his mind for the Feanorians who had caused such disgrace to come upon the two children who he had raised, who had come to be as family, as sons to him. Daeron had learned there was one son still living, and promising to eventually meet the others again, he departed east; on a ship that would take him to Forlindon.
Daeron’s thoughts turned southward almost immediately as he reached the mainland, to the shores of the sea where it was said that Maglor, his old friend, yet wandered, and he again thought of the vengeance he wished to bring upon the last son of Feanor, and it was a long journey south which led Daeron to the last remaining son of Feanor, who wandered and grieved for his lost Silmaril. Daeron drew his sword; thinking that he would slay him as retribution for Dior’s death; yet when he drew near and saw his grief stricken face, and his hands scarred with the searing burns of the gem, and heard his mourning song, Daeron took pity upon him.
There was no more malice in the eyes of Maglor, Maglor recongized him; and it became year upon year that that the two elves sat together, the Noldor and the Sindar, making memory in music. Daeron learned of the fate of Elwing; of her sons whom Maglor had cared for. Daeron learned the histories from Maglor's view; he learned of the downfall of the Noldorin, and he learned his songs, and laments, his music. Most of all, he learned of the land that the Noldor had come from; of Aman, and as Maglor spoke of the Undying lands and what he had seen in his youth, Daeron too felt a stirring in his heart to forsake Arda. Daeron would bid Maglor to forget the sea and the Silmaril; and to travel north again to Mithlond; to the land where Gil-galad was High King, and where his foster son, Elrond, resided, yet Maglor's laments could not be stilled; and ever was his eye fixed upon the sea.
Daeron grew weary of Maglor's mourning songs, and he was not ready yet to return to Elvenesse, thus he departed. His feet had not yet trod further east, and the songs he had written of Lúthien and of Doriath had not passed the stars and the forest of the far lands. Some of the heaviness had settled from Daeron’s heart though he sought solitude, and the thoughts of Palisor, where Cuivienen was, and he began to retrace his steps to find the great sea which he remembered from his earliest days under starlight; yet all he found in the lands now called Rhûn was a desert wasteland, and a small remnant of sea, heavy with salt and brine.
Daeron became lost in the wilderness, entrapped by the deceit of the realms, and he lost his way, wandering as the navigation of the stars slipped from his memory. Slowly, he wandered as they had wandered in the early days, but now his lonely song was his own, here and there he paused, sometimes for a week, or sometimes a year. Often he strayed in spaces in the east and south of the world where the seasons were difficult to grasp save for rainy and dry. There were people there, he was lonely, but not alone. Daeron wandered to Far Cathain, to the east of Rhûn, to the eastern sea, and once sailed with the Avari there to the lands of the Broken Moon, where the sun seemed to rise and set on the wrong sides of the world. He traveled to the to the Stormshadow mountains and traipsed the jungles of the Cloud Forests of Khand, singing to pools of water which where black as night; singing laments of Lúthien and Doriath into obsidian shadows which had never been looked upon by the fair faces of the Eldar. The second age passed into the third, unbeknownst to Daeron, for news of the northern wars had not come so far to the south. Enchanted songs passed through the Mountains of the Wind, and Daeron stood at the heights, looking onward.
After time he felt a shift within himself; he felt old, weary, and his age began to show on his face defined by bearded stature. Daeron had not remained long enough in Doriath to see the way that Thingol had withered with age, though he too felt it upon him, even as his song traveled with him over the dry lands where spices were plentiful, and past the burnt islands which were called the shards of the sun. Into the thick forests where war creatures large and heavy rambled, and he garbed himself in the cloth of the Haradrim, as day by day he came upon more humans. Grateful for the shock of hair at his chin, and his head covered with turban to hide his pointed ears, he kept what distance he could, though even in nights upon the desert his flute would sing.
The waves and the wind on the shore told him he had once more reached the western sea, and Daeron began to think again of those he had left behind, and wondered upon who lived yet; if Menegroth had been rebuilt, and if elven kingdoms thrived as they once had. With measured footsteps Daeron began the trek northward though biting desert sands until the he came to the crossings of the great river Anduin had to barter passage across by some swarthy men with a weeks work sanding and repairing the decks upon their ships. Daeron was afraid they would not let him go if his job was finished too fairly and so slightly disgruntled he made sure the brunt of his work on the docks was not perfection in the eyes of the swarthy men, and so he found himself standing upon the docks of Pelargir.
Immediately distrusted for his clothing and his accent which was neither Gondorian nor Haradric he needed to work to gain proper garb. He traded services for an evening, calling himself traveling bard in one of the halls of men; surrounded by eyes and faces weathered which reminded him of Beren, and how he still resented mankind. Daeron’s voice was fair, and they called him Belfalathrim, and teased him about his beard, saying he was not of pure blood, asking him if he was cold for he would not remove his cloak from his head, and Daeron answered that he had not felt the chill of the northlands in a long while, which made the men of Gondor laugh, as they were then in the south and knew little of the Dark and Sunburnt lands where Daeron had trod. Would you sing “The Lay of Leithian,” one curly haired man called out after a time, and Daeron stared at him. The Lay he had himself written, which had been written on his heart before he had brought forth the words to sing the sons of Dior of their history. The great minstrel stuttered as he sang the lines of his own jealousy and betrayal to Lúthien, but he had included them, for what had happened had happened, and history could not be changed for the sake of those who held embarrassment. A deed was a deed no matter how fair or foul, and Daeron’s was written in song which spanned the whole of of Western Arda through realms of elves and men he was soon to find.
The land was littered with mortals; enough mortals to make the minstrel walk without singing, and not an elf to be seen. He feared to ask after them, and Daeron found his paths blocked by a range of mountains. He had never traveled inland, and knew nothing of the lay of the land, and so turning eastward he followed the road which was ever widening, and as days passed he passed a bend in the mountains, and a city tall and fair stood before him. White stone, with a ring of black around the edges, and a great spire to the reaches of the heavens; Daeron saw before him what looked as Gondolin from the songs of old remade.
Name Meaning: 'shadow man'
Age: 10,855 solar years
Date of Birth: 1102 Year of the Trees
Race: Sindarin (Eglath) Elf
Residence: The Wilds
Profession: Minstrel and Lambengolmor
Appearance: Standing at 6'6, dark hair, with grey eyes which saw the light of stars above Cuivienen; stars which twinkled to his music, and a dimple on his left cheek. His skin was once pale white complexion now tanned from two ages living outside any type of walls, in the wilds and the southlands. He has long since worn out of his elvish garb, wearing what cloth he has come across in kingdoms of men. Daeron has never been without his flute, and since the day he left Doriath he has carried a sword at his hip, but it has not once been tarnished with blood.
Personality: Daeron has had a lingering melancholy over his spirit since the days when Doriath was lost, his mind still loiters in bittersweet dreams of the realm of Thingol and Melian, where love and friendship were lost. He has nostalgic feeling and memories of people lost in those days. Some who knew him then would have considered him mad in the time therafter, and while he admits that there was some madness driving him, it was mostly devastation. Daeron played a roll in the events of the downfall of Menegroth, and where he was once ashamed of those trials, it was long ago and he has come through them, taking life as it is. Lúthien forgave him of his deeds even before time wore her away. There are grudges held in his heart yet for the sons of men and the naugrim.
He is and has always been somewhat whimsical in speech and manner, his mind caught up in a snare of music and lyrics and poetic prose and rhyme; the manner of his speech while given meaning to himself, is rarely straightforward to an even thinker who does not give pause to understand his nuances. His manner once disconcerting to even Thingol. Daeron lives his life through song and there is something of his music and emotion that still conducts the music of nature around him, a joyous song piped can elicit the twinkling of songs, and a sad melody can cause the insects to stand silent. He is compelled to song, and song and memory are his purpose. Perhaps there are a few more memories which need to be put to lyric before he wearies so much that he needs travel west to meet his kin again, but the time is coming soon.
.The Blood.
Parents: Tindis and Fuinor : Both sailed west after the War of Wrath
Children: Not sons of blood, but fostered to adulthood Elurín and Eluréd
History:
Daeron was born of the second generation of elves, those who came from the original one hundred and forty four which awakened; thus being, he never knew a grandsire. His parents were young and of the unbegotten. They had awakened beside each other; first laying eyes upon the stars, and then upon their spouse. Never knowing the trials of love and rejection, they simply were, created for each other. Daeron was born at beneath the stars and the stars were the first lights he saw, gleaming as pinpricks above him. He sang before he could speak, and he always loved the music of the waters wherein at Cuiviénen in the Sea of Helcar he would splash and play as a child. He was born in the year in which the three ambassadors, Ingwë, Finwë and Elwë were summoned to Valinor, and he remembers their return when he came to be about twenty years of age. At thirty years, still an elfling, he bid farewell to Helcar and the elves began to pass west.
The elves in those days became sundered from one another, and as they traveled west they were slow moving. It took hundreds of years to cross Arda, bit by bit those who had been born by the sea broke off into different sects which headed south, and east, afraid of the smouldering which came from Utumno. While Ingwë and Finwë traveled more swiftly to the far west, Elwë lingered, until one day he was lost to them. Daeron, well grown by this time, was among those who searched for him while he stood in trance in the forests of Nan Elmoth, and it was over two hundred years until he appeared again and became known as Thingol, their King, with Melian queen at his side. There was a glimpse of something in the face of their queen which caused them to still their westerly seeking; the light in the face of Melian was enough, and those who followed Thingol became known as the Eglath, or the Forsaken, for they no longer desired to take the passage to Valinor.
Daeron was appointed the chief loremaster of Thingol, and in the year in which the delving of Menegroth was begun, Daeron devised a method of keeping written record, called the Cirth, which was higher valued by the Naugrim (the dwarves) who visited the realm of Thingol than by his own people, later on a version of his letters were also adapted and used by the Noldor for the came easier to carve into stone than did the Tengwar of Fëanor. Nonetheless Daeron’s heart was bruised for his accomplishment had gone unbidden by the Sindar whom he was closet to.
The sun and the moon then rose and shone upon the earth, and the Noldor returned from across the sea (and the Sindar were yet unaware of the kinslaying which had taken place) there was a feast of reuniting to celebrate the alliances between the elves. Daeron and Mablung were sent as ambassador's to Mereth Aderthad to revel alongside Fingolfin, the High King of the Noldor, and in this time Daeron became acquainted with and befriended one of the high minstrels of Tirion across the sea, Maglor. It was a friendship which persisted for some time until the treacheries of the Noldor came to the ears or Thingol and his court, and contact between those two were ended.
Once she had come into adulthood, Daeron’s eyes set upon the figure of Lúthien, daughter of the king, and there his heart was stolen. Much time did they spend together, yet what Daeron saw as love, Lúthien saw as friendship. He let his heart believe it was true, that Lúthien loved him in return, and Daeron passed many a day and year fluting as she danced.
When sky was clear and stars were keen,
then Daeron with his fingers lean,
as daylight melted into eve,
a trembling music sweet would weave
of flutes of silver, thin and clear
for Lúthien, the maiden dear.
There mirth there was and voices bright;
there eve was peace and morn was light.
then Daeron with his fingers lean,
as daylight melted into eve,
a trembling music sweet would weave
of flutes of silver, thin and clear
for Lúthien, the maiden dear.
There mirth there was and voices bright;
there eve was peace and morn was light.
Until the time came when in the Forest of Neldoreth where she danced in the night. So ethereal and beautiful the dance which led forth into her song, that Daeron stilled his piping in a trance to watch and listen as Lúthien’s voice carried through the clear night air. A creaking and a cracking in the wood gave way to the sound of heavy boots and Daeron’s enchantement vanished; spied a stranger within the girdle of Melian. It was Beren, a man of the north, who had somehow entered the realm unbidden. Daeron chirped out a warning to Lúthien, bidding her come away, to follow him, for danger lurked. But Lúthien stayed, and she hid, but as Beren moved through the thicket, his hand touched the arm of Lúthien. Daeron’s eyes were opened in that moment to the way Lúthien looked upon the mortal man, which was not the way she looked upon him.
Some seasons passed, and time stood still, but when the year turned Beren returned, and Daeron crept as a shadow through the forest, his grey eyes which held the waters of Cuivienen in the night shone with fire and rage as he watched Beren and Lúthien meet within the forest; as he watched them dance together, where once had been just she, and laugh in mirth together. Daeron’s own laughter was stilled, and deep melancholy came over him. Daeron cursed the trees, cursed the voices of the forest, and cursed the music which he himself played, and Doriath stood in a silence noticed by all others in the realm. No longer did the Esgalduin laugh as water flowed over rock and stone, no longer did the sound of the bees hum a melody. The birds of Melian perched silent, and the quaking leaves above could no longer dance but only sway in somber breezes.
Upon the silence, the minstrel was sent for and found where he moped upon the grassy slopes beneath the beech trees, and he was brought before Thingol, questioned for the silence and what it forboding it brought, and finally Daeron answered with dry humor and riddle, overcome with jealous of the stranger in their midst. The king was upset that he did not give straight answer, and Daeron was ashamed, looking to Lúthien for relief, as the elleth fair gave word herself of the mortal man in the land. Thingol angered dismissed all but Daeron from the room, and when alone the heavy hearted minstrel was given orders to take by secret archers and guards into the forest, to follow Lúthien. Yet all was in vain, as Lúthien was honorable to her word and brought Beren by hand before the king herself. The elves gathered to hear what was to come, Daeron stood with pallid face and frail fingers against a pillar as Beren asked Thingol for his daughter’s hand, deep jealousy burning within him, as the King pronounced that the mortal man should have earned death, that he was full of the deceit of Morgoth; that his sneaking ways into the Girdle of Melian had been learned by the orcs. The minstrel growled out of turn, “Death,” in agreement that he should be executed, and Lúthien looked at him woebegotten.
Though the curse of silence was lifted, Daeron’s flute no longer played in Doriath, and no longer did Lúthien sing. Beren left Doriath to fulfill the mission of Death which was set upon him by the King, as if an invisible bar and chain were over his head he would retrieve the Silmaril to have Luthien’s hand. When news came upon the birds of Melian that Beren had become captive, Lúthien mourned and seeking in the forest she found the minstrel and pleaded with him to play music for her again as once they did. Daeron did not wish to play, but he did for her sake, though the songs that trilled from his flute were low and mournful, and the forest wept. Finally Lúthien spoke to her old friend of her plan to seek out Beren, to travel to the dungeons where he was held and free him, and Daeron told her that he had no love in his heart for the mortal man, but he would defend her from perils, and keep her from wandering into hell, but Lúthien did not understand his meaning.
The second betrayal of Lúthien to Thingol came quickly on the lips of Daeron, as he bid the King to keep his daughter safe and from ruin. What Daeron did not realize was was the nature of Thingol to keep his daughter under lock and key. His own daughter taken captive, taken into the north of Doriath to the tallest beech where Lúthien and Daeron would once sing together, she was kept on guard in an enclosure within the tree. Daeron stayed with her day by day, playing his flute to keep her company and grieving for their fates, and Lúthien forgave him a second time for his betrayal, allowing only Daeron to climb the tree and speak with her through the bars.
Bidden by Lúthien as time passed to make her a loom that she could weave away the hours, Daeron questioned her, considering her methods and the riddle she had spoken in answer. The minstrel’s heart told him something was amiss, and he thought to speak again to the King on her behest, but this time he did not betray her. He did as she had asked, and a loom he crafted. Then days passed as he called beneath the tree for her, but afterwards she did not answer, until a day when grey mist descended and when the sun shone again Lúthien had vanished.
Daeron with heavy heart was among the first to go in search of her. The minstrel searched for her beyond the reaches of Doriath, and among all those who attempted to find Lúthien again, Daeron searched the furthest and longest, until he had passed the mountains of the Ered Luin and no word came to him of what transpired in the pits before Sauron, of the fate of Lúthien and Beren, and none saw him again in Menegroth until on the mouth of the dwarves which traisped the Ered Luin, word came to Daeron’s ears of the Nauglamir; the necklace inlaid with a Silmaril, and Daeron realized that Beren must have succeeded in his quest; and he knew that Lúthien was truly lost to him. Daeron mourned, but he began to move west again; for Thingol had always promised his friendship, but when he made way to the enchanted realm, Daeron came to find that the hedge of Melian was gone. The birds sang of her departure, and word to his ears that Thingol was dead. The magic and enchantment which guarded them safe had been destroyed with the invasion of the dwarves, and it was Dior, the son of Lúthien and Beren who ruled a now torn Kingdom in his father’s stead. Daeron could not deign to enter the kingdom of Dior, to look upon the face of one who held the light of Lúthien. The last twinges of his jealousy set within for the child she had borne with Beren. Having lived already long years away from the caves of Menegroth, Daeron stayed himself a shadow in the trees, simply watching and waiting, his flute silent as he decided if he would fall into service with the young King. If Lúthien had been anything to him; she was a loyal friend, and he knew that Dior deserved his allegiance as well as she or any other.
But as Thingol’s downfall came from the necklace he would not release to the dwarves; When Dior would not release the Silmaril to the Noldor; When rivers of blood poured from the gates of Menegroth as the Feanorians sought their Silmaril during the second kinslaying, Daeron, the watchful; the spy; the shadower. Even Daeron did not see soon enough the encroachment of the Noldor, as kept himself to the treetops, grieving that his King and kin were lost. When the armies of the northern elves came upon them there was nothing he could do to warn them. Daeron could make no songs of this despair, there were no words to put to music for the sights he witnessed.
It was he who saw the treachery of servants of Celegorm as they carried the twin sons of Dior, Elurín and Eluréd, from the great gates and abandoned them crying within the forests which were now darkened for the lack of Melian's fence. Daeron followed through the treetops; silent and sure as if he were walking upon the ground and when the day had faded and the footsteps of the Feanorians were long spent, he descended and gathered the children to him; grandsons of Lúthien; comforting them, taking them deeper into the forests and feeding them from clear springs and the fruit and nut of tree and vine.
Traveling on foot ever eastward with the weary elflings, they passed to the very reaches of Doriath and came to the forest of Nan Elmoth, where once Thingol had met Melian when their King had been lost to them. The valley of star dusk, with its trees which grew so thick and tall that no light reached the forest floor seemed as safety to Daeron, and here he settled in hiding with the children beneath the trees shadows.
The children grew, unharmed by the world, and Daeron called them Haedhion (Elurín, Son of the Fenced Enclosure) and Gathrochil (Eluréd, Cave Heir) to bring no knowledge of their existence to any who might spy for the Feanorians. Still, he taught them well of their lineage, and he taught them the songs and histories of their people, and most those of Lúthien, and he sang them songs of her, and how she had woven her hair with magic into sleepy twilight when it was time for them to rest. When they were of an age, and the time came for the twins to make their choice concerning which race they would belong, they remembered the choices that Luthien had made, and chose to remain with the Eldar for the sake of their foster father; who they knew was still ravaged by the loss of Lúthien. It was in the forest of there where Daeron began to put her story to words, writing the “Lay of Leithian,” which would pass on from the mouths of the twins in later years to become sung all across the face of Arda in their recall.
When they were 83 years old, living long in the forests of Nan Elmoth as elves of the forest, unaware of the fate of their sister Elwing, and of the third kinslaying, word came upon them by the last birds of Melian that yet lived within the forest; of the War of Wrath between the Valar and Morgoth, and the rising seas, and Daeron, Gathrochil, and Haehdion set forth for higher grounds, coming eventually to the north and the pine forests of Dorthonian, where elven refugees would gather together. Seeking higher and higher ground, they thought they would perish beneath the waves until the day when the waters finally stilled their rising, and all that was left of Beleriand was the Western Isles.
What was left of Beleriand became the small islands of Tol Morwen and Tol Himling, and the isle where they dwelt, Tol Fruin.
Here would the paths of Daeron and the twins part; for Daeron mourned the loss of the forests of Doriath, of Nan Emloth, and moreso, he was angry. He had vengeance in his mind for the Feanorians who had caused such disgrace to come upon the two children who he had raised, who had come to be as family, as sons to him. Daeron had learned there was one son still living, and promising to eventually meet the others again, he departed east; on a ship that would take him to Forlindon.
Daeron’s thoughts turned southward almost immediately as he reached the mainland, to the shores of the sea where it was said that Maglor, his old friend, yet wandered, and he again thought of the vengeance he wished to bring upon the last son of Feanor, and it was a long journey south which led Daeron to the last remaining son of Feanor, who wandered and grieved for his lost Silmaril. Daeron drew his sword; thinking that he would slay him as retribution for Dior’s death; yet when he drew near and saw his grief stricken face, and his hands scarred with the searing burns of the gem, and heard his mourning song, Daeron took pity upon him.
There was no more malice in the eyes of Maglor, Maglor recongized him; and it became year upon year that that the two elves sat together, the Noldor and the Sindar, making memory in music. Daeron learned of the fate of Elwing; of her sons whom Maglor had cared for. Daeron learned the histories from Maglor's view; he learned of the downfall of the Noldorin, and he learned his songs, and laments, his music. Most of all, he learned of the land that the Noldor had come from; of Aman, and as Maglor spoke of the Undying lands and what he had seen in his youth, Daeron too felt a stirring in his heart to forsake Arda. Daeron would bid Maglor to forget the sea and the Silmaril; and to travel north again to Mithlond; to the land where Gil-galad was High King, and where his foster son, Elrond, resided, yet Maglor's laments could not be stilled; and ever was his eye fixed upon the sea.
Daeron grew weary of Maglor's mourning songs, and he was not ready yet to return to Elvenesse, thus he departed. His feet had not yet trod further east, and the songs he had written of Lúthien and of Doriath had not passed the stars and the forest of the far lands. Some of the heaviness had settled from Daeron’s heart though he sought solitude, and the thoughts of Palisor, where Cuivienen was, and he began to retrace his steps to find the great sea which he remembered from his earliest days under starlight; yet all he found in the lands now called Rhûn was a desert wasteland, and a small remnant of sea, heavy with salt and brine.
Daeron became lost in the wilderness, entrapped by the deceit of the realms, and he lost his way, wandering as the navigation of the stars slipped from his memory. Slowly, he wandered as they had wandered in the early days, but now his lonely song was his own, here and there he paused, sometimes for a week, or sometimes a year. Often he strayed in spaces in the east and south of the world where the seasons were difficult to grasp save for rainy and dry. There were people there, he was lonely, but not alone. Daeron wandered to Far Cathain, to the east of Rhûn, to the eastern sea, and once sailed with the Avari there to the lands of the Broken Moon, where the sun seemed to rise and set on the wrong sides of the world. He traveled to the to the Stormshadow mountains and traipsed the jungles of the Cloud Forests of Khand, singing to pools of water which where black as night; singing laments of Lúthien and Doriath into obsidian shadows which had never been looked upon by the fair faces of the Eldar. The second age passed into the third, unbeknownst to Daeron, for news of the northern wars had not come so far to the south. Enchanted songs passed through the Mountains of the Wind, and Daeron stood at the heights, looking onward.
After time he felt a shift within himself; he felt old, weary, and his age began to show on his face defined by bearded stature. Daeron had not remained long enough in Doriath to see the way that Thingol had withered with age, though he too felt it upon him, even as his song traveled with him over the dry lands where spices were plentiful, and past the burnt islands which were called the shards of the sun. Into the thick forests where war creatures large and heavy rambled, and he garbed himself in the cloth of the Haradrim, as day by day he came upon more humans. Grateful for the shock of hair at his chin, and his head covered with turban to hide his pointed ears, he kept what distance he could, though even in nights upon the desert his flute would sing.
The waves and the wind on the shore told him he had once more reached the western sea, and Daeron began to think again of those he had left behind, and wondered upon who lived yet; if Menegroth had been rebuilt, and if elven kingdoms thrived as they once had. With measured footsteps Daeron began the trek northward though biting desert sands until the he came to the crossings of the great river Anduin had to barter passage across by some swarthy men with a weeks work sanding and repairing the decks upon their ships. Daeron was afraid they would not let him go if his job was finished too fairly and so slightly disgruntled he made sure the brunt of his work on the docks was not perfection in the eyes of the swarthy men, and so he found himself standing upon the docks of Pelargir.
Immediately distrusted for his clothing and his accent which was neither Gondorian nor Haradric he needed to work to gain proper garb. He traded services for an evening, calling himself traveling bard in one of the halls of men; surrounded by eyes and faces weathered which reminded him of Beren, and how he still resented mankind. Daeron’s voice was fair, and they called him Belfalathrim, and teased him about his beard, saying he was not of pure blood, asking him if he was cold for he would not remove his cloak from his head, and Daeron answered that he had not felt the chill of the northlands in a long while, which made the men of Gondor laugh, as they were then in the south and knew little of the Dark and Sunburnt lands where Daeron had trod. Would you sing “The Lay of Leithian,” one curly haired man called out after a time, and Daeron stared at him. The Lay he had himself written, which had been written on his heart before he had brought forth the words to sing the sons of Dior of their history. The great minstrel stuttered as he sang the lines of his own jealousy and betrayal to Lúthien, but he had included them, for what had happened had happened, and history could not be changed for the sake of those who held embarrassment. A deed was a deed no matter how fair or foul, and Daeron’s was written in song which spanned the whole of of Western Arda through realms of elves and men he was soon to find.
The land was littered with mortals; enough mortals to make the minstrel walk without singing, and not an elf to be seen. He feared to ask after them, and Daeron found his paths blocked by a range of mountains. He had never traveled inland, and knew nothing of the lay of the land, and so turning eastward he followed the road which was ever widening, and as days passed he passed a bend in the mountains, and a city tall and fair stood before him. White stone, with a ring of black around the edges, and a great spire to the reaches of the heavens; Daeron saw before him what looked as Gondolin from the songs of old remade.