A Chain of Daisies by The Wavesinger

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A Chain of Daisies

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It is spring in Brethil, and Finduilas watches as Níniel weaves daisies into a chain.

 

Spring has brought no cheer for her; more and more of her warriors die, and they are stretched to their limit, the darkness creeping upon them on all sides. She cannot join Níniel's happy laughter.

 

“Finduilas?” Níniel's voice jolts her out of her brooding. “What are you thinking of?”

 

Finduilas shakes her head. “Nothing that can be solved. Or,” she amends, “Nothing we can solve.”

 

“You are thinking of battle again.” Níniel places her head on Finduilas' shoulder.

 

“I—” Finduilas stops, sighs. “We have no hope, Níniel, no chance against Morgoth.”

 

“Do not say that. Look at what you have won.”

 

“But our losses far outstrip our victories, and when we do win, it is at too high a cost.” Finduilas tugs absently at the hem of Níniel's cotton dress. “I cannot see an end to this.”

 

“We will find a way,” Níniel says quietly. “We will, I promise.”

 

Finduilas closes her eyes. She cannot be as hopeful as Níniel is—it is simply not in her nature to ignore the facts. This had helped her in Nargothrond, helped them all, but now—

 

“Stop,” Níniel commands. “Stop thinking, and look at what I have made for you.”

 

Finduilas looks, obediently, at the daisy-chain. “Thank you, Níniel, but—”

 

“Shhhh.” Níniel places the chain around Finduilas neck. “There. I have crowned you queen of the woods, now.”

 

“You should have made me a crown, then, not a—aaah!” For Níniel has attacked her tickling her sides mercilessly, running her fingers over sensitive skin until Finduilas is a puddle of helpless laughter. “Have mercy! Stop!”

 

“Only if you stop brooding,” Níniel demands, her fingers digging deeper into Finduilas' ribs.

 

“Yes, yes, ” Finduilas wheezes. “Whatever you say, Níniel, only please let me go!”

 

“If you say so.”

 

The tickling stops abruptly, and Finduilas is left wheezing on the ground.

 

Eventually, she recovers. Níniel curls into her lap (careful not to crush the daisies), making content noises as Finduilas draws her fingers through her hair.

 

“Níniel?”

 

“Mm-hmm?”

 

“Thank you.”