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Leithian [1]
I came to the Outer Lands to walk under the stars. I did not come to find love.
Some said it was a spell of Yavanna that held us frozen in time, until Elwë and those who loved him had tarried too long, and must remain to heal Yavanna's creations. Some said it was a spell of my own making.
I came to believe that it was the doing of Melkor's servants, but that was not true, either. They have not such caprice in them, not such humor in their malevolence.
No, the Quendi themselves wove the spell. The Quendi: exquisite, ethereal creatures who so captivated my kind that we sought to keep them for ourselves, to lock them away in our gilded cage - or bind them, fana to fëa, until Arda be remade.
If I could but remember our long sojourn in the woods, the love in his eyes, the laughter of Lúthien as she learned to dance in imitation of the trees, swaying in the starlit breezes of that long night. If I could but remember…but I cannot forget. He grew suspicious, miserly with what he possessed. Our daughter's feet danced restlessly; he clipped her wings. He clung to his own wisdom, guarding it from my counsel.
Alone among all he held, I could not be possessed and could not be caged, for I had built him an elaborate cage of my own.
His constriction festered and became jealousy. It seemed even then, after the sudden flame, that the Noldor had the rule of Beleriand, and that he, Thingol, once acknowledged as King from the Havens to Ossiriand, kept only his cage, and that by not his might but that of his wife. Pride! For pride, he would trade the blood of his son. For pride, he would trade the immortality of his daughter. In pride, he coveted the precious jewels of the Noldor, and would recover what they could not - or send Beren to his death and recapture his daughter. [2]
Can you understand how I came to despise him, and love him still? For I too had a cage, a cage of my own making. By his death I was freed. In my sorrow, I knew deliverance, and I threw down the bars and released Doriath. I knew that all that he loved would fall under the heels of those he most despised and that his name would forever sour on the lips of his subjects. [3]
You believe that I did wrong. You point to my fair grandson, his lost little sons. You speak for Mablung and Nimloth. I cannot tell you that my heart is at ease. We are not always wise, the Maiar, and our fury sweeps innocent and guilty into its net. We rarely forgive.
I do not yearn for Elwë's return. Long has Námo had him, imprisoned now in a cage girded by guilt and regret. When he comes to me, rehoused, whole and innocent as he was in the Forest of Neldoreth, I shall love him anew, and with time, perhaps I will forgive him.
You are too polite, perhaps, to speak of the bars that surround me. The shackles forged by my wrath, the guards ready with spears aimed at my heart - surely you see them. Yes, it is a pretty cage I have fashioned, a lovely silver cage, glistening with Sindarin tears.
I cannot forgive myself.
Some said it was a spell of Yavanna that held us frozen in time, until Elwë and those who loved him had tarried too long, and must remain to heal Yavanna's creations. Some said it was a spell of my own making.
I came to believe that it was the doing of Melkor's servants, but that was not true, either. They have not such caprice in them, not such humor in their malevolence.
No, the Quendi themselves wove the spell. The Quendi: exquisite, ethereal creatures who so captivated my kind that we sought to keep them for ourselves, to lock them away in our gilded cage - or bind them, fana to fëa, until Arda be remade.
If I could but remember our long sojourn in the woods, the love in his eyes, the laughter of Lúthien as she learned to dance in imitation of the trees, swaying in the starlit breezes of that long night. If I could but remember…but I cannot forget. He grew suspicious, miserly with what he possessed. Our daughter's feet danced restlessly; he clipped her wings. He clung to his own wisdom, guarding it from my counsel.
Alone among all he held, I could not be possessed and could not be caged, for I had built him an elaborate cage of my own.
His constriction festered and became jealousy. It seemed even then, after the sudden flame, that the Noldor had the rule of Beleriand, and that he, Thingol, once acknowledged as King from the Havens to Ossiriand, kept only his cage, and that by not his might but that of his wife. Pride! For pride, he would trade the blood of his son. For pride, he would trade the immortality of his daughter. In pride, he coveted the precious jewels of the Noldor, and would recover what they could not - or send Beren to his death and recapture his daughter. [2]
Can you understand how I came to despise him, and love him still? For I too had a cage, a cage of my own making. By his death I was freed. In my sorrow, I knew deliverance, and I threw down the bars and released Doriath. I knew that all that he loved would fall under the heels of those he most despised and that his name would forever sour on the lips of his subjects. [3]
You believe that I did wrong. You point to my fair grandson, his lost little sons. You speak for Mablung and Nimloth. I cannot tell you that my heart is at ease. We are not always wise, the Maiar, and our fury sweeps innocent and guilty into its net. We rarely forgive.
I do not yearn for Elwë's return. Long has Námo had him, imprisoned now in a cage girded by guilt and regret. When he comes to me, rehoused, whole and innocent as he was in the Forest of Neldoreth, I shall love him anew, and with time, perhaps I will forgive him.
You are too polite, perhaps, to speak of the bars that surround me. The shackles forged by my wrath, the guards ready with spears aimed at my heart - surely you see them. Yes, it is a pretty cage I have fashioned, a lovely silver cage, glistening with Sindarin tears.
I cannot forgive myself.
- [1] Leithian
- release from bondage
- [2] 'son'
- I've used 'son' in the archaic sense that encompasses blood relations and sons-in-law. Obviously, she is referring to Beren.
- [3] 'By his death I was freed'
- "…but for the love of Elwë Singollo she took upon herself the form of the Elder Children of Ilúvatar, and in that union she became bound by the chain and trammels of the flesh of Arda." (ref. The Silmarillion, 'The Ruin of Doriath' p 281 pub. Ballantine/Del Rey)