Chapter Text
Doriath, for all its splendour, for all the majesty of its age-old trees and the dewdrop freshness of the violets in spring, is a prison. Her father doesn't see it; his very existence is intertwined with the roots of the forest and with her mother's magic - they draw breath, and mighty branches creak in the sudden gust of wind.
(Or perhaps he, too, longs for elsewhere sometimes. A painting of the sea hangs in his chambers. He never mentions it. She never asks about it.)
What is immortality worth when nothing ever changes? Centuries crawling by in a haze of ennui. Seasons bleeding into each other, mingling like the light of Laurelin and Telperion (or so she has been told, on the rare occasions when such tales are permitted) into endless twilight.
One day he walks into Doriath, bloodstained, exhausted, yet burning with the unquenchable fire of immediate, fragile, precious, defiant life. And Lúthien throws caution to the wind, shakes the dust of centuries off her cloak, and leaves her twilight half-life behind.
