A Walk by the River by Elfique

Walk by the River

The elf maid’s steps were slow and steady as she walked along the bank of the rushing Narog. Yet inside Finduilas had never felt so frail. Only through the strength of will known to her line she held herself together, kept the tears at bay.

He had not returned, he who had set off so sure, so alive and proud as he paraded past her with a white favour hidden under the plates of his gleaming armour. She’d sensed the undercurrent of apprehension in the crowd. Her father sat with grim look as he watched the company pass. But her love had shown nothing but courage and was an image of wonder with his warrior’s braids flying in the wind as he waved her farewell.

The thought of his face, those noble and sculpted features, brought a dull pain in her chest and left her gasping for breath in her grief. It was a far cry from the nervous skittering of her heart when she had first looked upon him as a woman grown.

Brave, courageous. That was what she had been told, it had been a valiant end.

Finally sorrow overcame Finduilas; she sank down on the mud and grass wrapping her arms about herself. They should have walked these banks together. Instead she mourned him, cold and alone.

*

And so he mourned her by those rushing waters… only it was many years later. Only after he had returned unlooked for in the company of a dark stranger. He mourned her even as he watched her living and loving in that stranger’s company.

Watching her slender figure stroll alongside the proud and straight countenance of Turin was like looking into a cruel mirror of the past. It was once his strong arm that had steadied her steps. Unable to look any longer, Gwindor cast his eyes to the foaming waters, glad that they flowed too fast to reflect his distorted form. Could it really have been this body that swung her laughing over the shallows? Was it so long ago that she slipped that favour under his armour to keep over his heart?

That white square of cloth and its fine embroidery had not kept for long on those gore drenched plains. But in his mind they had stayed bright and shining, a glorious memory of her that kept him sane through the shadows and horrors.

A memory she should have stayed.

For beholding her now and knowing what could never be again was an agony. As he managed to turn away Gwindor clenched the ragged cloth in his hands and wept. Faelivrin was lost to him.