What Happens After by The Wavesinger

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What Happens After

All of Middle-earth is not Dor Firn-i-Guinar. Avoiding death by a whisker does not equal a happily ever after. Fleeing one danger does not mean another does not await. Sorrow and loss have been sung into the very fabric of Arda, and sorrow and loss haunt those who fight their fate.

 

 

There is a dragon in Níniel's dreams, a golden dragon who laughs and laughs and laughs, and his cruel, mocking laughter follows her every night, weaving through the landscapes that pass through her sleeping mind.

 

 

When Finduilas was very young, when they still lived by Lake Mithrim, Orodreth spoke to her of Valinor, and she still remembers her father's face as he spoke of the Light of the Two Trees and the glittering peak of Taniquetil. Then, she could not place the emotion that crossed his face, or the tone of his voice. But now—

She has built a life here in Brethil, with Níniel and her warriors and her people. She fights and hunts and sorts out disputes and laughs and makes love. She is happy.  Brethil is home.

The forest is her home, and her people are her home, and Níniel is her home, but not in quite the same way Nargothrond was.

—Now, she understands.

 

 

Finduilas dreams of the dragon, too. Níniel knows this, because she wakes up every night, her eyes filled with terror, at the same time that Níniel does.

They comfort each other, then, foreheads pressed together, palms slick with sweat and gripping tightly. Sometimes, they fall back to sleep, but more often, they drift together in the quiet of the not-quite-morning-not-quite-night, naked bodies tangled together, murmuring into each other's skin, until dawn filters through the windows.

 

 

They see the stars from the clearing where they lie together near a small fire, huddled in each other's arms. (It is dangerous to be out at night. But sometimes, they need to breathe.)

Finduilas whispers, to Níniel, how the stars were placed in the sky by Varda, and Níniel responds with her own truth-tales, stories from a childhood she cannot remember, of goddesses and warriors who battled for the world and sprinkled the sky with their silver tears.

It is quiet here.

 

 

“Lady Níniel, would you be so kind as to solve our dispute?”

They call her Lady Níniel because they do not know what to do with her. She heals as best as she can, gathers and grows food, but she is not a leader, like Finduilas. Their Captain, their Princess, loves her, and so they call her 'Lady'. That title has never meant anything to her (how could it, when they are a ragtag band of refugees, too proud to accept help from the Men of Brethil, fighting and eking out an existence as best as they can?), so now, hearing herself addressed with this question, Níniel starts.

“My lady?”

Níniel blinks. “Yes?”

“Could you—we have a problem, my lady, and the Princess, that is to say, the Captain, has been gone for weeks, and Lady Mírwen with her—”

“Of course.” Níniel does not know why she agrees, but the dispute, it turns out, is easy to solve. The next day, another is brought before her, and the day after, two more.

And so it goes, and suddenly, Níniel is a leader too.

 

 

Finduilas is afraid.

She is afraid of death and what awaits her beyond (she is, after all, of the Ñoldor. They are, after all, doomed), of losing (what is left of) her people, of fire and dragon-eyes and of the Darkness in the North, of the knowledge of what has become of her relatives (all of them, every single one of them, spread out in kingdoms gone up in fire). But most of all, she is afraid of losing Níniel.

When she comes back from her hunts (Orcs are not people; they do not deserve battle ), when they are alone, she holds Níniel and whispers 'I love you' into her skin until the fear washes away.

 

 

Time passes. The dragon disappears from Níniel's dreams, and is replaced by a woman, aged with care, and the voice of a man—boy?—she know she does not know, but should.

 

 

Not only the woman, but snatches of images which cannot be memory, should not be memory (her memory is gone, she is a lost mortal child without a past, how could it be memory?), and yet are eerily familiar. “Dreams pass in time,” Níniel tells herself, but she cannot— 

“What are you murmuring to yourself about, love?” Finduilas has come up behind her, and now presses a hand to Níniel's cheek.

“I—” Níniel shakes her head. “Nothing. Just dreams.”

Finduilas frowns, traces Níniel's cheekbones with one finger. “Come with me. We will sleep under the stars tonight. Will that help?”

“Yes,” Níniel murmurs. “Yes. I hope it will.

 

  

The people of Nargothrond, those who remain with her, dwindle; they die by Orc-arrows, Orc-swords, Orc-maces. Ugly Orc weapons matted with the blood of her people.

“I should stop,” Finduilas says, after yet another death (her name was Ailiniel. She was not close to her, but she remembers her name. She remembers all their names. It is the least I can do.). “I should stop; we are safe here, for now, and my people die pursuing Orcs. But—” She sighs.

But that was what Father did, and look what happened to Nargothrond. But we have no hope of holding out, and there is nowhere to flee too. But at least they were not captured and tortured and raped. She does not say anything of these thoughts.

“I know,” Níniel murmurs.

She does not know. She has not seen her people die, watched the remnants of her people and of her city grow less and less. But she tries, and for Finduilas, this is comfort enough.

 

 

Most days, there is little time for meals together; Finduilas and Níniel are both busy with their respective duties. Sometimes, however, they take some food and steal away, down to the private clearing by the stream that is theirs , where all know not to disturb them.

 

 

They watch the water sparkling as it gurgles past them, and Finduilas, who has seen the world beyond the forest, marvels at its pureness, at the fact that it has not yet been defiled and corrupted by Morgoth. Níniel laughs at the sunlight glittering on the water, and peppers Finduilas' face with kisses, smoothing the worry away. 

There are flowers there, sometimes, in the spring and in the summer, and they weave crowns for each other's hair, laughing and teasing each other until they are worn out. And then they lie on the warm, fresh-smelling grass and kiss some more.

For a moment or two, there is peace.

 

 

Sometimes, Níniel wonders who her mother is.

It is idle fantasy—her past is gone, and her family with it—but she imagines a stern, sad lady, much like the woman in her dreams, beautiful and proud.

A fantasy, nothing more. The fact that she deludes herself into thinking she knows this woman is testament to the hours spent building it. Too much, too many.

 

 

“Níniel,” Finduilas murmurs one night as they lie tangled together. “Níniel.” The name tastes strange on her lips, familiar and well-worn, yet with a hint of newness . “Niniel. Why did you choose that name?”

“Hmm?” Níniel looks up from where her head is curled on Finduilas' collarbone. “My name? I—it seemed to fit, at the time.”

“What tears, Níniel? Who do you weep for?” The question is deeply private, but Finduilas feels herself asking it anyway.

“I do not know.” Níniel looks troubled, now. “Someone close to me. I remember—” But then she shakes her head in frustration. “No, it is gone.”

 

 

Most days, Finduilas comes home with blood on her hands. Some days, that blood is hers.

Níniel has become used to this, almost, used to the process of cleaning out wounds and bandaging them—so different from bandaging another's wounds, and yet the same. Almost, but not quite.

Each time she bathes skin in water and watches rivulets of red run down her lover's body, fear thrills through her. And each time, she thinks: I will not lose you, Finduilas. I will not. Not like—

But that thought is never finished. Something holds her memories back.

 

 

Finduilas has relatives, still, spread out over Beleriand, and no knowledge of what has become of them. Sometimes, she wonders whether she should set out to find news of them, leave the losing battle they are fighting to find her family, Doomed and broken as they are, but—

“Finduilas? What are you thinking of?”

Finduilas startles, looks down at Níniel, whose hair she has been carding her fingers through idly. “Nothing.” But at Níniel's look, she relents. “My family. I was wondering—” She stops the thought, shakes her head abruptly. “Nothing. Just foolish imaginings.”

 

Níniel is tallying up the fruit they gathered, making note of the stores, when she feels—something. A shudder, a touch of cold lifting. Mírwen, her second and Finduilas', standing next to her, makes an inquiring noise. “Lady Níniel?”

Níniel shakes her head. “It is nothing.”

But it is not nothing. There are images rushing through her head, memories of her mother—

A gentle hand on her shoulder, dry lips brushing her forehead. I love you, Nienor.

—Hithlum—

“Stay close to me, Nienor, do not leave the house without me,” and she tried to listen, even when it was dull and there was nothing to do and she was bored;

— of the Easterlings—

“Such a pretty girl,” a man leered, and Nienor opened her mouth to snap at him, but he was large and menacing and could kill her and her mother wasn't there to stop him because Nienor wandered away and so she turned and ran;

—of fleeing to Doriath—

“Mother—”

“We will be safe there, and we will find your brother.”

“But Mother, we do not know whether they will welcome us.”

A wry twist of the elegant mouth. “You are too much like me, Nienor.”;

—of that panicked flight and losing her mother—

She could not see, there was fog everywhere, and everyone was gone. “Mother!” she called, but there was no answer;

—and of Glaurung, and fighting, fighting—

His eyes held her, and she could not move, could not speak, his voice whispering f orget, forget into her mind, but “No!” she cried as he tried to take memories of Morwen, “No!”, and they fought for what must have been hours, at least, if not days;

—and losing—

Forget, the dragon whispered, and no matter how much she struggled, the memories were taken, one by one;

—and Níniel blinks. Calmly, the thought comes: I am Nienor of the House of Hador, daughter of Morwen and Húrin.

She falls to her knees, and weeps.

 

 

When Finduilas comes home that day, she is laughing. “Níniel, Níniel, Glaurung is dead. The dragon is dead! Mormegil killed him! The dragon is dead!” 

“The dragon is dead,” Níniel repeats, and joins Finduilas' laughter.

 

  

It takes a long time for Níniel to recount her past, much longer than the half-second of realization. “My name used to be Nienor,” Níniel says, and there is wonder in her tone. “I was called Nienor.” 

“Nienor.” Finduilas tests the name out on the tip of her tongue. “ Nienor. ” Then, “Do you wish to be called that?”

Níniel is silent for a long while, plucking at blades of grass, but when she speaks, her tone is firm. “I am Níniel. Nienor is behind me.”

 

 

“Did you know,” Finduilas tells Níniel, later, “That one day earlier, and Mormegil would have found you on that mound, not me?”

“Mormegil?” Níniel queries absently, tracing patterns on Finduilas' arm.

“His party was a day ahead of ours—we were headed in different directions, but Haudh-en-Elleth was a crossroad on our path—and had you been a day earlier, or he a day later—”

“We would not have found each other.” Níniel stops moving her fingers.

The thought upsets Finduilas more than she cares to admit. “But we did.”

“We did,” Níniel acknowledges, smiling. “And I am glad.”

“I am glad too.”

 

 

Mormegil is missing, disappeared after killing Glaurung. Finduilas does not spare much thought for this, at first, but. Mormegil is missing, and she loved him, once. Even now, what little she saw of him, during their Orc-hunting, used to be a link to her old life, to Nargothrond, and he is gone. 

She feels the pieces slip between her fingers. One life destroyed, and another built, but of war and blood, always of war and blood. She loves Níniel, but a lover is not the same as family, and she needs—wants, truly, and maybe it is a selfish wish (but so many of her people have died, and she cannot do this much longer, and family is an excuse, a reason)—her relatives, such as they are.

(Her father talked of how close their family was, long ago in Valinor, but Finduilas could not remember that then (for how could she remember events of a time before her birth?), cannot remember it now.

What she can remember is her granduncle Fingolfin's strong arms, and her aunt Aredhel and her great-aunt Írimë laughing together, and her uncle Turgon's frown, and her uncle Fingon boosting her onto his shoulders, and her uncle Maedhros smoothing her hair back gently, and her uncle Aegnor tickling her, and her uncle Angrod handing her sweets, and her aunt Galadriel showing her how to use a sword, and most of all, her uncle Finrod hugging her and ruffling her hair: “My little princess.”)

 

 

“I want—” Níniel stops, breathes. “I want to find my mother.” 

Finduilas looks at the beloved face and nods. “I, too, want to see what has become of my relatives.”

“We will go,” Níniel says, decisive.

Finduilas kisses her.

Tomorrow, they will make plans, move her people to somewhere they are safe (or choose someone to lead them in her—in their —stead. Finduilas doubts they will ever stop fighting for the memory of Nargothrond—she knows she will not). Now, they lie in each other's arms, and count the stars in the sky above them.

 

 

They end up with a ragtag group of people—those who have no families to protect, some of Finduilas’ warriors, and, of course, the ever-loyal Mírwen. The others leave for Sirion with the remainder of the warriors (and, even with their diminished numbers, both from deaths and due to those who choose to stay behind, their numbers are formidable). 

Finduilas sings the day they strike out, looking for their relatives, to patch over the small ache in her heart—the world is ahead, true, but they have left their home behind them, the home they built and protected, and she cannot help but grieve. Next to her, Níniel squeezes her hand, and Finduilas knows she understands.

 

 

They travel towards the ruins of Nargothrond; it is a treacherous journey when travelling, not as a band of warriors, but as a group of Elves (and one mortal) leaving their home. Not treacherous yet, while still shadowed by Brethil, but—

“What are you thinking of, Finduilas?” Níniel has sneaked up behind her, and now presses her chin to Finduilas' shoulder.

“The journey ahead,” Finduilas murmurs.

“You are worrying.” Níniel caresses Finduilas' face, drops her hand lower onto her collarbone. “Do not worry, beloved.”

“How can I not?” But Finduilas gives into the kisses now being placed on the side of her throat, turning to press her lover against a tree and ravish her mouth.

“It will be fine,” Níniel murmurs again, after, and this time, Finduilas, sated and sleepy. does not disagree.

 

 

“Halt!”

The command brings Níniel out of her slumber, and she sits up. Beside her, Finduilas is already grabbing her sword; they have come upon two Orc patrols, now, and scouts beside, and it is only Finduilas' orders which have prevent the warriors on the night watch cutting down whoever the intruder may be immediately.

“I mean you no harm,” a feminine voice says. “If you are Elves, I mean you no harm.”

Finduilas is hurrying towards the spot where her guards have barred the entry of a hooded figure, and Níniel runs to join her. “What do you mean, if you are Elves ?”

“Exactly that,” the figure says. “I seek news of my daughter, and if you are Elves, you may know—”

“Remove your hood,” Finduilas interrupts.

The figure is reluctant, but slowly, the hood is drawn back, and—

Níniel's mother. Older, more careworn, and with silver in her hair, but undoubtedly her mother. Níniel feels herself gasp, but cannot hear the sound above the roaring in her ears.

Morwen is looking at her, now, and slowly, they step towards each other. (And the warriors move, but Finduilas signal them to stand down; Níniel does not see this. Her gaze has narrowed to her mother, and only her mother.)

“Nienor.”

“Mother.”

And they fall into each other's arms.

 

 

Four more years they search, but Beleriand is vast, and their luck appears to have run out; they meet no descendants of Finwë, and Finduilas' mother had no relatives who survived the Bragollach. 

Finduilas does not want to call off the search. But the slim—and ever-diminishing—hope she still has is not justification enough to continue leading her people on a fool's errand. And so, unhappily, she decides to leave for Sirion. (And there is another small hope there, too. Whoever survived may have found their way to the Havens.)

 

 

The woman who greets them is tall and golden-haired and— 

“Aunt Galadriel?”

“Finduilas?” Galadriel stares at her for a long moment. Then, “I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were dead,” Finduilas says, and there are tears in her eyes.

 

 

“Níniel,” Finduilas breathes into her lover's skin, and feels a smile curve against her shoulder in answer. “Níniel.”

“Finduilas,” Níniel whispers in reply.

 

 

All of Middle-earth is not Dor Firn-i-Guinar, but all of Middle-earth is not Angband either. Sorrow and joy come unexpectedly, and fate is ever-changing, yet fixed.

For that is the gift of mortality—the gift, the grace, the doom, the ability to change destiny, to change the very Song that wrote the world. Chance shapes mortals as it does not shape the Eldar. And sometimes mortals can carve out, if not joy, a hope that the Valar themselves are unable to bestow, and the Valar themselves cannot withhold.

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