Tenn' Ambar-metta by Almare

She sat on the floor and lent against the window sill, arms crossed under her head. She looked out over the world. Waiting. Another year had passed and soon her only reprise from the accursed tower would be here. Why they allowed them to meet had confused her for a long while. It came to her eventually of course. It was simple. To keep us feeling. To keep us remembering. A thousand times and more she had tried to escape this place. A thousand times and more she had thrown herself from the window only to awaken again in the tower. The first few times she had screamed. After that there didn’t seem much point. She couldn’t escape by dying. The seabirds that had once saved her were now her guards. Always was one or more perched in the tower rafters; watching and reporting her attempts.

The fine metal chains that bound his arms and legs to the swan-ship’s mast bit into his skin and the unfailing light from the damned jewel imbedded in his brow burned his eyes.  The ship lurched as it began its decent. Another year passed. The bitter thought clawed his mind. Ahead he could just make out the shape of the tower that was her cage.

The light approached and began to descend.  The shape of a ship gradually became resolved from the point of brightness. The swan form reached its near point and she let herself be taken by her bird form, launching herself upwards. A swarm of gulls followed her.

She reached the deck and landed, and retaking her native form, ran to her husband. His bonds slackened and he slumped to the deck as she reached him. She sank to her knees beside him, and moving to embrace him, held him close, burying her face in his neck. Thus they sat for hours, holding each other without speaking, silent tears running down their faces.

The ship began to move once more, and his bonds tightened, pulling him to standing. The birds that had been watching on the railings and in the rigging began to move closer, encircling her as she stepped back. For the only time that day, they made eye contact and spoke the only words they had allowed each other in uncounted years: “Melinyet. Namárië.” his whisper and “Gi melin. Novaer.” her reply.

The birds seized her, dragging her away, back to the tower. They dumped her ungracefully in centre of the room and all but one took off back out the window. She turned back to watch the ship glide away, ascending into the sky for another year.

We fought the wrong war. The memory of the words echoed in her mind again. They were the enemy all along. They are the enemy. We fought the wrong war. And again as every year, she collapsed to the ground and wept.

Chapter End Notes

Eärendil says “I love you. Farewell.” in Quenya, his native language, and Elwing says the same in Sindarin, which is hers.

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