The Singer’s Gift

By

TreeHugger

Disclaimer: The majority of the characters are the property of the Tolkien estate. The children on the beach are my own creation, as are Maedheryn and Menelmathron.

Chapter 1 – The Singer

The children ran along the golden beach, the surf that surged gently over the glistening sand erasing their footprints behind them. Their delighted voices filled the spring air with laughter as they pursued one another, the cold water lapping over bare toes. A tall youth with shaggy golden brown hair led the way. He was perhaps twelve summers old, his handsome face showing a glimpse of what it would be in manhood, yet still softened by the roundness of the childhood he was leaving behind. One of his hands was clasped about a small girl-child’s, her own laughter ringing out like silver bells as she pushed herself to keep up with his longer strides, not knowing that he had already shortened his own so as not to leave her behind. A cloud of dark hair floated about her, crowned with the first pale roses of the season. The others followed after them, giving merry chase.

Suddenly the tall youth halted, scooping the girl into his arms protectively, his grey eyes widening. The others thudded to a halt behind them, staring past his slender frame with eyes wonder-widened, their voices fallen away into silence.

Standing several feet away was a tall figure swathed in a ragged cloak the color of a storm-ridden sea. He stood with the water splashing over his ankles and bare feet and his eyes fixed on the glittering sea, a long slender staff of pale wood clasped in one hand. A gull’s feather and some seashells danced on leather ties where they had been fastened near the staff’s top. But the thing that held the children spellbound was the voice that lifted on the morning air.

It was a quiet voice, singing in a language they did not understand, but were oddly moved by; the exotic flow of words held them mesmerized until the voice fell away and only the sound of the water washing on the shore filled their ears. The sudden cessation of the song left them feeling bereft, as though they had lost something beautiful and highly prized, something rare and precious.

“The Singer,” one of the children murmured at last, her fingers moving to clutch the back of the older boy’s shirt.

The children studied “The Singer”, seven pairs of eyes huge with fear and amazement.

Slowly he turned toward them, as though just now aware of their presence. He pushed the hood from his head, reaching back to free a long spill of ebony hair, letting it fall loosely past his slim waist. Magnificent grey eyes regarded the children and they gasped, for his face held an unearthly beauty, the likes of which they had never seen before or even dreamed of.

The Singer gazed silently at them as they continued to study him in awe.

Finally the eldest boy overcame his fear and noted the worn clothing the stranger wore, all in shades of blue and grey.

~Twilight colors, ~ he thought with a chill of fear and excitement coursing through him. For that was what they called him, Twilight Singer. His voice had been heard of an evening by the inhabitants of the small fishing village that rested here on the northeastern corner of the Sea of Rhun. Only a voice, always disembodied, for the superstitious villagers didn’t venture to find out who was singing in the dark of night as the first stars appeared to light the sky.

“Is he a ghost?” one of the smallest boys asked, his hand moving to clasp that of his twin brother. They moved closer together until their slim shoulders were touching, identical freckled faces filled with disquiet and wonder beneath thick thatches of sun-burnished chestnut hair.

The oldest girl, a willow-slender maiden of fourteen, stepped forward, her blue eyes bold above her rosy cheeks.

“Who are you?” she queried, lifting her pointed chin in challenge as she spoke the question they all wanted answered but could find no voice to ask.

There was talk in the village of this Twilight Singer, whom all had heard but none had seen until this day. Some of the villagers said it was a ghost, the lost soul of a fisherman drowned in the Sea in some forgotten age, or one of the Sea People with glittering tales like fishes that were said to inhabit the blue depths of the sea; others said it was a wanderer from the East, an unknown being that would seek to ensnare them with its voice, which was fey and too beautiful and heartbreaking to be human.

A few of the village ancients, that sat at the inn telling tales of the bygone era of their youth to anyone who would listen and mayhap drop a few coins for an ale to wet an old throat, said it was one of the Forgotten People, creatures of the Elder Days when the world was different and not so old. This was usually met with skeptical laughter and hearty claps on the old ones’ backs or shoulders, and occasionally rewarded with the sought after glass of ale. But some few remembered the tales told by their grandparents of a race of tall, slender folk in the West: beautiful and wild they were, living in gleaming cities carved from the mountains or beneath the spreading green leaves of the forests, dancing and singing beneath the stars in the twilit grass.

The children thought of this now as The Singer’s eyes settled on the tall girl, who gasped slightly as she was caught between the desire to flee or to step toward him. Something ancient and wise lived behind those mist-hued eyes; something so sorrowful that she did move forward a pace or two, one hand lifting as if to comfort him. His gaze lingered on her; a sorrow moving through him, an old pain that had never truly left him.

~It has always been thus, ~ he thought, seeing her fascination with him. ~They find us magical and fall captive to us, and at times . . . we to them. ~

Then his voice broke the eldritch spell; he sang not but spoke, and in their own language.

“I am Daeron, a wanderer in the shadows.”

The children stared at him in astonishment, not having expected him to address them in words they knew and understood, though his voice made the simple words sound strange and wondrous. It was unlike any voice they had heard, and they continued to gaze at him in amazement.

He met their eyes for a time, and then his gaze fell upon the youngest of them, the small girl held protectively in the circle of the tall youth’s arms. Her blue eyes widened as his eyes met hers and she stilled, barely breathing. Then she squirmed, looking to the youth, silently demanding release. When she stood once more on the sand, she moved slowly toward the tall Singer, hearing the quiet noise of protest behind her. Her fingers twined in her white skirts, which had been carefully embroidered with blue and pink flowers.

She tilted her head back to stare up at him, thinking him incredibly tall, taller than her own father, who was not a fisherman but a blacksmith and bigger than any man in the village, both in height and girth.

The Singer stared down at her, then knelt before her, smiling kindly and replacing the wreath of roses that had slipped backwards on the dark tresses. He was rewarded with her beautiful smile.

“It is my birthday,” she chirped proudly, her fingers touching her rosy crown and meeting his fingers for just a moment. “My mama made me this,” she continued, indicating her beautiful floral circlet. “She has the most beautiful roses in the village.”

The Singer smiled at her, her enthusiasm touching his heart which so seldom felt anything but sorrow and regret.

“Happy birthday, little one,” he said in a low voice. “What is your name?”

“Niphredil,” she answered in an almost defiant voice, her bottom lip thrusting out.

The oldest girl rolled her eyes expressively, but The Singer could see the affection shining on her face.

“Her mother is a romantic,” the girl said by way of explanation, having heard this from her own mother and aunts many times. She took another step forward. “She said that niphredil is a flower, though it is no flower that any of us have ever seen.”

“She said that it blooms in the starlight,” the twins said together, emboldened now, seeing that the Singer wasn’t going to eat them or drag them to watery graves beneath the cold Sea.

Suddenly another young boy moved forward, pushing past the others, his eyes filled with a fierceness that surprised Daeron. The boy flicked aside a stray lock of his own dark hair and said, “Do not make fun of her name.” His eyes swept over the other children as well as the intruder. “It is the perfect name for her, and even if there are no niphredil flowers, Niphredil is herself as lovely as a flower, and therefore her name is most fitting.”

Daeron watched as the twins nudged one another, exchanging amused glances. The older girl shook her head, and the girl that had called him “The Singer” giggled behind her hands. He smiled at Niphredil once more before standing again.

“Niphredil is a night blooming flower that grew in the West. It seems that Niphredil’s ‘romantic’ mother has chosen a most appropriate name for this charming little blossom.” He winked at the girl-child and she beamed happily. She had never doubted that her mama knew things that other people didn’t. If she said that niphredil was a white flower that bloomed only beneath the stars, then it was so.

The oldest boy, whose name was Lothar, moved forward, putting himself in front of all the other children but Niphredil, his face belligerent. Just because Niphredil could be taken in by the stranger’s seeming kindness, he was not so convinced.

“How do you know what niphredil is?” he demanded. “And what were you singing earlier? That was no language that I have ever heard before.” Lothar’s father was a most important person in the village, and had traveled to the far cities in the east and occasionally to smaller settlements and villages beyond the small rise of mountains to the west to trade for what was needed or wanted in the village of Ulumfal. Lothar had only begun to accompany him the summer before, and felt himself to be most educated and knowledgeable in many things that the others were ignorant of.

“You are being rude,” the eldest girl said with a sniff. Being two years older than he, she felt she could still ‘put him in his place’ from time to time. “Forgive us, sir. My name is Vaya. Welcome to Ulumfal.” She curtsied then, a blush painting her cheeks. “This is Lothar, whose manners need some refinement,” Vaya said pointedly with a glare at ‘well-traveled’ youth. “The twins are Maren and Menel.” Each boy bowed when his name was pronounced, impish grins on their faces. “Dunie is the one hiding behind Lothar. Shai is Niphredil’s grand defender; and Niphredil has already introduced herself.”

Daeron smiled at the formalities and pressed his hand to his heart, tipping his head to them.

It wasn’t often that he moved among the mortals that seemed to be spreading across the lands he traveled on his lonely path. Only when he needed something from one of their towns or villages did he venture among them, hooded and cloaked. He would sing for the coins they would toss at him, enchanting them with his songs; some merchants even offering their wares at no charge if he would merely stand before their shops or stalls and sing, or play his flute or pipes, knowing that the crowd would gather about this strange ‘man’ with a magical voice. He had never enjoyed being surrounded by so many people at once, certainly not by the mortals he had never truly learned to like, though he no longer despised them as he once had.

“As it is your birthday, Niphredil,” he said, turning to the child once more whose hand had crept to touch the faint traces of embroidery that remained on his tattered blue tunic, “I would like to give you a gift.”

“You would?” She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and shining.

“Yes. But you see, I am a poor soul and cannot offer you anything very fancy or expensive.”

He had noticed the boy called Shai start slightly at this, and he wondered if perhaps the youth understood this only too well. Daeron gestured toward the low dunes behind them, and he led them to where he had made his small camp for the past few weeks.

Lothar, Dunie, and Shai hesitated at first, but seeing the twins start after the Singer and Niphredil, whose hand was clasped in the stranger’s own, and Vaya who trotted on his heels, they followed.

Lothar’s eyes swept over the small camp, noting the fire pit filled with burned driftwood and ashes, the smoothed out hollow where Daeron made his bed. His eyes moved to regard the tall dark-haired stranger once more. In all his travels, which he could admit to himself weren’t numerous; he had never seen anyone that looked as this slender Singer did. He had certainly never heard anyone that sounded like him, or moved with such unconscious grace.

The Singer gestured for them to sit upon the sand, even taking off his much mended cloak and spreading it for them to sit upon while he perched with Niphredil on his lap on a log someone had drug from the nearby wood to use as a seat. He had laid his staff aside, propped against a rather battered leather bag that held all his possessions. A carefully fashioned rod with a string and a hook attached lay on the sand beside a pair of worn brown sandals.

The children settled on the cloak: Vaya leaning forward, her eyes riveted on the fair face of the visitor; Dunie huddled shyly behind her, the twins crowding in front. Lothar sat stiffly on Vaya’s other side, his head tilted at an arrogant angle. Shai sat apart from them, warily studying the Singer and keeping an eye on Niphredil.

“Where I come from, I was a . . . a keeper of histories and stories, a teller of tales. A singer.” He smiled, seeing their eyes widen at this statement. “So I would like to gift you with a story, young Niphredil, and then perhaps a song as well. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes!” the child cried happily, for she was never more content than sitting at her mother’s knee listening to the wonderful tales that Yanna, her wonderful mother, told her. Now perhaps she, Niphredil, would be the one to tell a story.

Daeron smiled at her enthusiasm. It had been a very long time since he had told a story for the sheer enjoyment of it or sung a song for anything but his own longing or money for food or shoes.

“I will tell you the tale of a child whose birth was celebrated throughout a kingdom; a child whose birth brought about the first blooming of the niphredil. This is a true story,” he said, seeing the looks of skepticism on the faces of Lothar and Shai. “It happened long ago in a kingdom now drowned beneath the western sea.”

For a moment a look of deepest sorrow marred the Singer’s face, and he closed his eyes. Then he felt the gentle touch of Niphredil’s hand on his cheek, wiping away the tears that glistened there. He smiled at her tenderly, the smell of the white roses in her hair rising to him in the warming air. His smile deepened as he thought of how to begin his tale. Yes, there was only one way for it to begin.

“Once upon a time there was a great elven king named Elwe Singollo, called Greymantle. He was the ruler of what you now call the Forgotten People. His wife Melian gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Her name was,” he hesitated slightly; it had been so long since last he had spoken her name aloud, “Luthien Tinuviel, and she was the fairest of all the creatures that have ever walked the earth . . . .”

TBC