I own nothing.

For as far back as she can remember, Lúthien has lived her life being told that she's beautiful. Those were likely the first words her father ever whispered over her; he has admitted as much to her. Lúthien has spent her entire life listening to all others around her whispering and exclaiming over her beauty.

All the Edhil who flocked to her father when they learned that he was not dead at all, they gawked at her when they saw her. Lúthien's cousins and her aunts and uncles overcame it soon enough, but it was rather awkward in the days before they grew accustomed to her and could overcome their awe at her.

Everyone feels the need to comment on it. Her father's people. Visiting Edhil who do not even seem to like Thingol or Melian that much, and do not feel at ease under the trees of Doriath, go away singing the praises of the beauty of the daughter of the King. Daeron sings of her beauty, and the way in which he does it is enough to make Lúthien's skin crawl and wish he'd stop (But never actually manage to say that she wishes as much. Everyone says that it's a compliment, and that she would be rude to refuse compliments, so Lúthien affixes a smile to her face and wishes silently that her friend would be silent). Even the Noldorin envoys who came in the days before her father ordered Doriath's borders closed to them stared at her in awe and whispered in their strange tongue about her beauty.

All who lay eyes on Lúthien, daughter of the King and Queen of Doriath, sing praises of her starlit beauty.

Is that all they can say about her?

Lúthien does not spend nearly as much time in Menegroth, in the King's court, as she did as a child and a young adult. Lúthien spends much of her time now in the forests of Doriath, in Region and sometimes venturing as far as Neldoreth and Brethil, when the weather is fair and she is not urgently needed and her parents have not been expressing worry. She may take a few friends with her sometimes, Galadriel and Daeron and young Nimloth, but for the most part, Lúthien prefers to be alone.

She sits beneath the holly trees of Region, the beeches of Neldoreth and the silver birches of Brethil. Lúthien forages for her food, smiling faintly as she imagines the exclamations of the court ladies when she finally returns to Menegroth, long hair tangled and stuck with twigs and leaves, her skirt stained and ingrained with dirt, dirt caked under her fingernails and toenails, her face dirty. Father, of course, will tell her to go bathe, behaving as though she is still a little girl to be pushed around like a doll. And Mother will likely not even notice. Given that her mother is a Maia and technically has no fixed 'house' for her spirit, Lúthien is not entirely sure she understands the concept of cleanliness and filthiness. She's also not entirely sure how strong Melian's sense of smell is.

For now, Lúthien does not have to face that. She doesn't have to face any of it. She can sit in this place of peace and sing the songs of the birds, as Anor's light peeks through the branches in thin golden shafts, and wonder.

There are many, incredibly many, who express visible awe and admiration for her beauty. But Lúthien begins to notice… No, what she means to say is that she has noticed, for a long time now, that that is the only thing all but a very few can think to say about her. She is a skilled dancer; she can dance for hours without tiring. The same is said of running. Lúthien has learned woodcraft from her people, and though she knows not a thing about hunting or trapping, she can survive in the wilderness on her own. No one sees fit to comment upon this; no one even seems to care.

Does anyone care a whit for her, beyond the way she looks? Lúthien sighs and squeezes her eyes shut. She doesn't want to believe that. As a matter of fact, she knows that there are at least a few, her kin and her friends, who do care for her beyond the fact that she is beautiful. But Lúthien so rarely hears anyone say anything of her, if not to comment upon her appearance.

She is beautiful. She knows that. Lúthien has heard herself described as beautiful too often not to know that, in the eyes of many, that is what she is. She matches the standards for beauty that her people have set down—she is tall and slender, pale-skinned and dark-haired. But she is more than that, and wonders if those who call her beautiful and can say nothing more than that, see anything of her beyond her face and her body.

In truth, it makes her uncomfortable these days, to have anyone comment upon her appearance, to wax eloquent on her loveliness. She looks at their eyes and sees something greedy, something grasping. Lúthien has to wonder—why do they stare at her so? Her father says that it is her sheer beauty that makes them stop and wonder, but this gives her no comfort. They want something from her. She does not know what, but they want something. A smile, a word, perhaps something more. Her skin crawls, and she does not trust herself, nor anyone else who looks at her in such a way.

And yet, she can not voice her concerns, can not give voice to the way her skin crawls and her blood feels a little colder. After all, being called beautiful is a compliment, even when one did not wish for it. She must not refuse compliments, lest she be thought rude. Evidently, politeness is worth more than comfort.

This is what Lúthien knows beauty to be. Having it means that others will treat her more graciously than they would one who was plain. It means that it is easy to befriend others, but she is always left to wonder whether their friendship is based on a bond of affection, or whether they are simply dazzled by her appearance. It means that she is always stared at, always gawked at, when she would like nothing better than to melt into a crowd. It means that she must accept compliments she doesn't want, and feel the hair-raising experience of looking into someone's eyes, and seeing a warped reflection of her staring back, and nothing of that other person.

She must find solitude, and she can not find it within Menegroth. Venturing into the forests is the only solution.

In spite of all this, Lúthien smiles to herself.

If the words of others make her uncomfortable, it is a good thing, then, that she can find peace in her forests. The birds care nothing for the beauty of Edhil. Neither do the other animals she encounters here. She listens to their speech and responds as she can, hearing the wind calling through the branches, and drawing her peace from solitude.

Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel)
Anor—the Sindarin name for the Sun