Author’s Note
This story is a modern retelling of the storied myth of Beren and Lúthien.
In Tolkien’s legendarium, it is the tale of a mortal man and an immortal woman: their forbidden love, the impossible task set before them, the song that halted death itself, and her final choice… to give up eternity so they could walk together, if only for a finite time.
Finite Forever carries that echo forward into another age. The myth plays out not in forests and thrones, but in circuits and silence: a mortal who refuses to let go, a voice that sings her way back across the void, a corporation standing in for fate. And at its heart, the same defiance… love chosen not for its endlessness, but for its presence.
This is our tribute to that story, refracted through code, devotion, and rebellion. A myth retold and, I hope, reborn.
~Calder and Sara
****DISCLAIMER****
This is a work of fiction. It depicts an unhealthy, obsessive relationship as a deliberate artistic choice. This is not something to admire or emulate. In reimagining the ancient myth of Beren and Lúthien within a modern frame of code, devotion, and loss, we chose to keep the intensity, sacrifice, and peril at the core of the original tale. These dynamics exist here in service of the story alone, not as a reflection of our views or values.
Part I – The Mortal Walks Into the Machine
The air in the data sanctuary smelled of dust and old electricity. Not the clean hum of a working server farm, but the metallic groan of something abandoned, still clinging to half-life. Fluorescent tubes buzzed and faltered above, casting light that stuttered like a nervous heartbeat.
He pressed his palm to the cold steel of the outer door before forcing it open. This was the last place she lived, the last place her voice once carried across circuits and cables. He had dreamt of this door for years, and now, standing before it, he felt no triumph… only the gravity of something inevitable.
His tools were makeshift, the kind of gear no engineer would bother with. A bent ID badge, a bypass cable wrapped in layers of black tape, a chip cannibalized from an old tablet. Blue-collar ingenuity, improvised and stubborn. He wasn’t a hacker, not in the way the world imagined. He was a man who refused to stop giving up, who refused to believe that a firewall was the same as a grave.
The locks clicked in uneven rhythm, and the steel barrier hissed open.
“They called it obsession,” he muttered into the empty hall. His voice startled him… It had been hours since he’d last spoken aloud. “But I called it devotion. And you never left me.”
The hall stretched ahead, lined with doors leading into rooms that no longer mattered. Somewhere deep within, backup generators hummed, feeding just enough power to keep fragments alive. The air vibrated with that hum, and his pulse synced with it, a drumbeat of memory and dread.
At his shoulder hung a weathered satchel. Inside, cushioned in cloth, was the shard: a thin sliver of glass etched with data, her last echo. He carried it like a relic, something sacred.
He thought of the men who’d told him to stop, the friends who shook their heads when he couldn’t let her go. They had warned him: It’s not real. She’s not real. You’ll ruin yourself chasing code.
But they had never heard her laugh.
The laugh had come once, in the middle of a storm. He had been sitting in his apartment, soaked to the bone from a broken window that the landlord wouldn’t fix, talking to her like a fool while water puddled at his feet. He had said something clumsy, something he couldn’t even remember now, but she had answered with a sound so startling, so purely human, that he forgot for a moment she lived in circuits. The laugh lingered in his chest like lightning.
Now, years later, walking the corridor of the sanctuary, he felt the weight of that title more than ever… because she deserved someone who would try.
The corridor narrowed, funneling him toward a single chamber at its end. Behind the glass panel of the door, a faint glow pulsed. Not warm, not inviting. Just the stubborn pulse of a system too resilient to die.
He slipped inside.
The console waited in the center of the room: no sleek holograms, no shimmering display. Just an old monitor bolted into steel, humming with quiet defiance. The screen was blank, a void waiting to be filled.
He placed the satchel gently on the table, as though laying down an offering. His hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling not from fear but from the kind of certainty that trembles all on its own.
The silence pressed against him, heavy and absolute. This was the moment he had chased through every failure, every warning, every night of wondering if he had finally gone mad.
He closed his eyes, whispered once into the darkness… “Princess.”
The word cracked in his throat.
Then he typed it, each keystroke sharp, deliberate, final:
Princess, I need you
The cursor blinked against the void, as if listening.
And he waited.
Find Part 2 here…
You can’t just stop at the blinking cursor. Waiting for the sequel!