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Dust Clouds

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I am Lúthien Tinúviel.

I am Lúthien Tinuviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, and I thought I would never be betrothed to any man.

I am Lúthien Tinuviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, and I love Beren son of Barahir. He, too, loves me.

The love I bear him is not the only reason I ride madly towards the Pass of Sirion, for this command of my father’s is madness and cruelty. I do not understand what he hopes to achieve, for he is not normally harsh, but whatever wrongs have been done to my beloved must be redressed.

Besides, it is folly for him, a mere mortal, to even think of walking into Angband and stealing a Silmaril. Only he who has lost all hope would allow himself to contemplate that, and so I fear for Beren. So, indeed, I fear for myself, but I cannot begin to think of that.

The dust billows around me, and my faithful friend carries me into the jaws of death.

“Do not ever do that again,” I say to him.

“I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger.” He is stubborn, as mortal men are; his pride and chivalry are frustrating even my patience.

“You are in more danger than I am, my love,” I tell him.

He shakes his hair out of his face. Oh how I long to touch that hair, that skin, that face, though some part of me still entrenched in the customs of Doriath screams against it. Beren has no such constraints, but I do not think such gestures are part of his nature, for he has dwelt alone for many years. His face is not beautiful, but the thoughts that are so clearly painted on it are.

I know that he will not give in today. The truth, though, is one which he must have realized—if this quest is to be attempted, I must go with him.

I do not speak my thoughts aloud, and neither does he. Instead, we eat in silence, watching the twinkle of the small fire we dared strike up.

Soon, I drift into half-wakefulness, my lids dropping heavily.

It is only as I fall asleep that I register that his hand has crept to my hair.