Silmarillion Writers' Guild

Title: Enamoured
Author: Aramel
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Type: Angst/Drama
Characters: Celegorm, Aredhel, Luthien
Summary: Another theory-fic. Why Celegorm took to Luthien so quickly.


A swirl of fabric, and the dark cloak falls to the ground. He stares, a name forming in his throat. It is not-- it cannot be her, wed these last hundred years and dead for many, gone forever beyond his reach. How alike they appear upon first glance, though a second look banishes all likeness between them! But one moment of illusion is enough.

Memory is a strange thing. It can skip past long days, months, even years, but it stores some moments and replays them vividly, in colours as bright as fire on the hearth. And so he remembers the careless music of her laughter, the sharp glance of her eyes, and her long dark hair streaming behind her as they raced through the woods of Aman and the lights mingled in the sky above them.

They said that she had passed through Gorgoroth, where few had entered and fewer had survived. He can well believe it of her-- skilled and hardy, with a hunter's grace and a warrior's skill. She would have ridden forward fearlessly, defying the predators in the valleys and the monsters in the shade. She was defiance embodied, and she yearned for freedom.

Freedom-- and that was why he had been loath to speak, for to do so would be to cage her and to bind her to his doom. He had seen the great eagles soaring against the sun, wild and glorious, and their beauty lay in their wildness. He would not take that from her, nor lead her to destruction. To remember must be enough. Yet while he forbore, another had not; she had flown from bright cage to dark web, and so had been destroyed before his own end came. Because he had watched from afar, and stayed silent.

Too late, always too late, and that is the cruel irony of his life: to make the wrong choice, over and over again, and only realize it when it was too late. He will not do so again. The wild swan has flown off with his heart, so he will comfort himself with a lesser bird-- and if this glimmering shade of a maiden is a poor substitute for her fire, still he can dream.

"Luthien of Doriath, on behalf of myself and my brother, I bid you welcome."