Of Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax by The Wavesinger

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The Nature of Mortality

Finduilas contemplates sickness and Nienor.

I asked for prompts on Tumblr recently, and Amy Fortuna prompted 'Finduilas/Nienor, snuggling in a cave in the woods.' Here's the (not-very-good) result.

Takes place in the Somewhere I Have Never Travelled 'verse, and is also part of Legendarium Ladies April due to convenient timing.

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“Aaaah-choo!”

 

Mortals, Finduilas decided, were strange. An observation she'd made many times in the course of her (admittedly not very long, if extremely intense) acquaintanceship with Níniel, but this—this was beyond comprehension.

 

She knew, of course, of sickness; one couldn't live near mortals without a passing knowledge of such matters. The impression she'd garnered, however, was that sickness was akin to a wound—painful and of varying degrees of fatality. Not—this.

 

“Aaaah-choo!” Again, she made that strange sound, showering droplets of things which didn't bear thinking about over Finduilas. A sneeze, Níniel'd called it, another unfamiliar word, and the first few times, Finduilas had been convinced that Níniel was in intense pain, but no. “It—tickles,” Níniel had said, “But it's not painful. The headaches, though...”

 

Headache. Another thing Finduilas didn't understand. Pain in the head was dangerous, her training had told her, but Níniel had laughed when Finduilas had told her this. Laughed. Which resulted in a bout of what Níniel called coughing—a low, hacking sound which reminded Finduilas of the breathing of an almost-dead person. An observation which, for some reason, Níniel had found funny.

 

So now she snuggled next to her lover (for warmth, Níniel had said, although what warmth Níniel needed when her skin was burning and she was wrapped in layers upon layers of cloth was debatable. It must be a ploy, but for what, Finduilas couldn't understand. Anything Níniel wanted, she only had to ask for). Her very sick lover, who was sneezing. “Do you—is there something you can do to make those go away?”

 

Níniel blinked blearily. “The sneezing? No. It'll go away when it wants to.”

 

“And the—coughing?”

 

“There are some cures, but—not here.” Níniel sighed, her breath rattling loud enough for Finduilas to hear. There was a pause, during which they stared at the rain pounding down in the woods outside the cave. It was shelter, Finduilas reflected, and they'd searched for hours in the rain, soaked and miserable, before they found this place, and it was dry and warm, the fire Finduilas'd managed to light crackling cheerily. They even had supplies; they'd finished their hunting when the rain struck. Still, the space was cramped and her lover was miserable and they'd been here for two days now, and she wished the rain would stop so they could make their way back home.

 

When this thought was voiced aloud, Níniel nodded in agreement, her face moving against the hollows of Finduilas' throat. “Home...sounds nice.”

 

The scratchy, raw voice made Finduilas wince (and how did illness affect Níniel's voice, of all things) and she tightened her arms around her lover. “That it does.”

 

“Mmm-hmmm.” Níniel burrowed deeper into Finduilas' throat, and when Finduilas looked down at her, her eyes were closed, eyelids red and puffy, and her cheekbones a sharp too-thin, the plait Finduilas had braided coming undone.

 

She caught the stray strands, twirling them around her finger. Níniel's mouth opened in a yawn. “Níniel, love?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Sleep.”

 

“Don't want to leave you alone,” Níniel murmured.

 

“You'll be right here with me, only asleep.” Finduilas pressed a kiss to Níniel's forehead.

 

“Fine.” A huff of breath. “Love you, Fin'.”

 

“Sleep,” Finduilas repeated. And then, softer, “I love you too, Níniel.”