After many years of fruitless searching, Daeron of Doriath found a place of stillness and solitude where his broken heart called out for him to stop awhile. High in the Hithaeglir glimmered a remote tarn, a cold, round lake of mirror- calm, and beside the tarn he built a tiny hut of flat stones, and carpeted it with simple mosses. There he dwelt for many years, uncaring and untroubled by the passing of the months, the seasons, and the years. Each day he sat beside the still, dark pool and made lament in a voice which ached with the grief of untold loss. No man came to him, only the squirrels and the birds of the high mountains, and as the sun set he would walk around the bushes and trees close by, gathering food. The years passed and he sang on, finding in his heart he still remembered everything about his love: the way she danced, the ripple of her voice across the forest's rolling hills, the sheen of moonlight in her hair. All this and more, much more, he sang of, putting all his talent and energy and powers into the making of the song, so that it became more than a song—it became a spell, an enchantment of undying love, a memorial to Lúthien reserved forever in the echo of his voice.
- MERP:Angmar (2nd Edition)
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