Story [Tolkien] "'til you no longer hear me", Fic-gift for Nyota's Heart, Ensemble Cast, Part I up 11/18

“'til you no longer hear me”

Genre: Family, Drama
Rating: PG
Characters: Ensemble Cast (Melian/Thingol, Lúthien/Beren, Dior/Nimloth, Celeborn/Galadriel, Elwing/Eärendil, Maglor, Maedhros, Elros/Canonical Wife, Vardamir, Isildur, Aratan, Elrond/Celebrían, Elladan, Elrohir, Arathorn/Gilraen, Arwen/Aragorn, Eldarion)

Summary: The history of a lullaby.

Notes: This latest endeavor of mine is a fic-gift for the ever inspiring Nyota's Heart, whose request was: something to do with a piece of art, or music that stirs the soul, and that piece's impact on a character(s) - in the form of a ficlet collection, if possible. This was my muse's answer! We are starting before the First Age with this opening ficlet, but we should be following Lúthien's line all the way to the breaking and reforging of the world in these ten-ish parts of a thousand words or so. For the most part, this will be fluffy and family-oriented (as Deb's works so often are ), but this is Tolkien's world, so we will have the inevitable moments of bittersweet creeping in here and there.

The title of this collection is from 'Sleep My Young Love', an Icelandic lullaby – of which Sissel Kyrkjebø does my absolute favourite rendition, if you were interested in listening for yourself. It is a perfectly haunting, beautiful song, and my further inspiration for this piece.

Now, that being said . . .


Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, but for the words.

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I​

As with many things where her daughter was concerned, Melian learned this part by instinct.

In some ways, bearing her child was not quite unlike weaving the music of Eä. She had taken part in the birth of the world, feeling it flutter and grow underneath the power of her voice, added as it was to the celestial choir of her siblings and their divine masters. Yet, while she was then but one of many, singing when her Father bid her sing, and fighting against the taint of Melkor's discordant voice, this was more . . . personal, almost. Intimate, even. Though the birth of one being was not quite as grand as watching the oceans slosh against their cradles for the first, or as powerful as watching the land form from Aulë's breath; as wondrous as watching the heavens form with Manwë's breath, or as awe-inspiring as seeing the stars set themselves upon their paths at Varda's command . . . this was something that was solely her and her husband, and there was a wonder to be found in that.

Many of her kindred did not understand her choice, and she had seen but few of her siblings since she first bound herself to her form of flesh and bone. Amongst the Valar, only Irmo had touched her dreams in order to whisper his approval and his warnings for her days to come. Of her fellow Maiar, only Olórin had made the long journey from Lórien's gardens to touch a wondrous hand to her infant daughter's brow, offering both his congratulations and his blessing. The divine light to his face had been all the brighter for his awe, while his eyes had filled with a soft understanding as Lúthien cooed and attempted to wrap a tiny hand about his finger. Melian had felt such a pride fill her for his looking so – a pride that even surpassed what she felt when she had succeeded in teaching the nightingales of the world to sing.

Perhaps the true miracle of her creation was knowing that Lúthien was not merely of her, but of her husband as well. Their daughter was unique amongst the stars and seas and skies, something solely their own. Her daughter was a product of their very spirits, and feeling her grow within her womb, feeling as she slowly became aware of the world around her . . . there had been such a wonder to those days, enough to make it worth her enduring her body's violently rebellion against her pregnancy. Her spirit's form had not understood the constraints she placed upon it as she forced her bone to stay as bone and her flesh to remain as nurturing flesh. She had even tied her physical form to the spirit of her husband in order to remain as one with the mortal plane. It had been a trial, and it still was a tribulation of sorts, and yet . . .

Melian would ask Ulmo if his oceans looked at him the way Lúthien's wide eyes blinked up at her now. Manwë's heavens and Varda's stars . . . theirs was a cold love, a distant love, while Melian held a being that was born of love. In such a thing, there could be no comparison. With her child in her arms, she felt a rightness of spirit that she had long searched for amongst the celestial ranks of the Maiar. It was a contentment she had never truly found, even when she was surrounded by power and might and song. But, now . . .

Lúthien was only days old, and she tended to cry more often than not. In the beginning, the smallest of such whimpers had Melian all but scrambling to see what ailment she could relieve, her heart twisting in her chest for her daughter's pain. It had taken Thingol – who had been there to see all of Elmo's children at this stage – laughing in fondness as he assured her that their daughter was only hungry, or needed to be changed. She was a babe, he explained with dancing eyes, and babies were known to cry, thus giving voice to the needs they could not yet speak of.

Even still, Melian found that her daughter slept better – she cried less, or so she thought with the triumph of a new parent – when she held her, and rocked her in her arms. And, when she sang . . .

There was music in her daughter's soul, Melian could not help but think. Hers was a divine music, left over from the song that had birthed all of creation, the same song that had entranced Thingol with little more than a glance . . . Her daughter was a child of heaven and earth, and Lúthien would have claim to a power of her own in the days to come, a power that Melian could even now encourage in the smallest of ways.

So, she wove her song together, feeling around the edges of her daughter's spirit to find which syllables soothed her, which words set a light upon her heart. Lúthien slept deeply when she sang, and Melian now stood over her cradle to touch a soft hand to the dark fuzz covering her brow. Her daughter sighed happily at the caress, and she in turn felt such a tender awe fill her, one so bright that she was not sure how she was not aglow with it.

As her song faded away, she realized that she had attracted more than one listener. She felt the familiar weight of her husband's hands rest upon her shoulders, and she turned to see his dark grey eyes alight with the notes of her lullaby. Even though she had now known years in her form of flesh, it still seemed as if she was new to the way her heart seemingly leaped in her chest, all but liquid with contentment for the way he looked at her with such love and joy. She lifted one of her hands to cover his own, the touch of skin to skin still slow to lose its novelty, even after all of this time.

“I think,” Thingol said after the passing of a moment, “That I have heard this song before.”

“You have,” Melian replied simply. “In a sense, at least.”

“As enchanted as I was, our daughter seems to be,” Thingol mused, looking down into the cradle. “Perhaps, it is the part of me in Lúthien that answers so well to your song,” this he could not help but tease.

Her husband was tall, even for one of the Firstborn, but she had created the crown of her brow to fit perfectly with the hollow space underneath his chin. She gave a languid sigh, and leaned back against him.

“Perhaps,” Melian answered, her eyes glittering as she said so, “that piece of you in our daughter is what leaves me so entranced, as well.”

She could feel him smile against her hair, and he stayed with her as she began to hum again, while before her, Lúthien slept content with peace and magic in her dreams.



~MJ