Song of Lake Linaewen by Zdenka

Song of Lake Linaewen

A Sindarin Elf of Nevrast mourns the departure of her lover, one of Turgon's people who went with him to Gondolin. (Double drabble in poetry.)

Written for femslash100 Drabble Tag Round 7, for Himring's prompt: "Silmarillion: elf/elf - Lake Linaewen"

Read Song of Lake Linaewen

I sat by Lake Linaewen among the marshes, piping on a flute cut from a reed. I played to call the birds to me, the little birds that fly among the rushes.

To the sound of my piping came a bright-eyed Noldo maid, parting the rushes. The birds flew away with a fluttering of wings. I stood still, clutching my flute.

Many times you came back, and many times we met; I played my reed-flute for you there among the rushes. You called me your little bird, your sweet maid of the lakeshore. You sang for me your songs with strange words, that came from across the Great Sea.

Many times we met, and many times we kissed, as the little birds piped in the marshes. Our cloaks were warm below us, and the rushes swayed above us. You unbraided my hair, and the wind tangled it.

You came to meet me at evening, when the little birds were singing among the rushes. You spoke no word of departure-- only you kissed me so fiercely!

The halls of Vinyamar are cold and empty. I pipe alone on the shore among the rushes, and only the birds call back to me.

Solitude

Aewelir comes to Vinyamar but finds it deserted.

I had the impulse to catch up with some older prompts (and revisit a pair of OFCs I came up with in 2016). The story will have an eventual hopeful ending, but not in this chapter.

Written for the femslashficlets Language of Flowers prompt table challenge: marigold, meaning “despair and grief over the loss of love,” and the following prompts from B2MeM 2019 Bingo:

Color Burst 3 – Yellow: Remembrance (I29)
Emotions: Nervousness (N37)
Of the Sea: Cape (O72)
The Late, Great Mary Oliver: “And the runaway honeysuckle that no one will ever trim again.” (G54)

Read Solitude

It was a gradual, uneasy realization that it truly had been a long time since Maicáne’s last visit. Aewelir had gone to find her in Vinyamar only twice. She disliked the Noldorin city, where marble pillars rose up instead of trees and the people thronged so closely together that she could not walk with a free stride. She quickly felt overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise, and she pressed closely and warily to Maicáne’s side. The second time, Maicáne had brought her to a quieter place, a high balcony overlooking a garden. There was still bustle and shouting from the nearby streets, but at least there was enough space around her that Aewelir could breathe freely.

At last Maicáne had said, “You could never be happy in a city like this, could you?” Her face was turned away, looking out over the neatly arranged flowerbeds below them. Aewelir had agreed, with a breath of relief. From then on they met by the shores of Lake Linaewen, which meant that Maicáne came to her.

When Maicáne wasn’t there, Aewelir refused to count the days. Did she not have her own friends, her music, and other matters to occupy her time? She would not beg Maicáne to come more often or to stay longer. When she missed Maicáne too much, she would walk the paths of memory, losing herself again in the sight of Maicáne beside her, in every word and every touch.

And the last time—Aewelir’s cheeks heated to recall it. Maicáne had kissed her fiercely, almost desperately, clinging to her as they lay together by the lakeshore. Afterwards she had buried her face in Aewelir’s hair, murmuring something unintelligible in Quenya. There was enough sweetness in that memory to sustain her. Not to make up for Maicáne’s absence, never that—but Aewelir could dole out bits of memory to herself like the honey cakes on feast-days.

Yet time passed, and the seasons changed, and still Maicáne did not come. Aewelir felt her own restlessness growing; she wandered farther and farther from her lakeshore, treading unfamiliar paths, and finally that same restless impulse had taken her here, to Vinyamar.

The great gates of the city were closed; no guards stood outside. Unease prickled at her senses. It was utterly silent, she realized, except for the occasional call of a bird. She could hear nothing from within the city walls.

Aewelir went around the walls until she found a smaller door set under a high archway. A honeysuckle vine had been trained to climb up one pillar, across the top and down the other side; the vine had grown and expanded until it hung in front of the doorway in thick loops, sent tendrils wandering down the broad steps and into the nearby hedges. The vines were heavy with flowers, creamy-white blossoms shading to pink or yellow at the tips.

She went up to the door, stepping over and through the trailing vines, and grasped the handle. Up close, the scent of honeysuckle was almost overpowering. She was afraid the door might be locked, but it opened at her touch and swung easily on its hinges. She went in.

It was dimmer inside, but enough sunlight came through the windows that she could see her way. Clutching her reed flute, she ventured reluctantly into the marble halls. Her footsteps struck the hard surface with a dull thud, echoing in the silent air. It felt unfriendly to her feet, not like the yielding surface of the forest paths or the wet earth of her dear lakeshore. She was half afraid to find bodies, slain in battle or struck down by some curse, but there was no one at all. Every room that she peeked into was empty of life. Wherever she walked, there was only silence, and her tracks were the only ones to disturb the dust.

She came out at last into a square surrounded by marble colonnades. A huge carved fountain, big enough to swim in, sat in the center; but when she peered over the edge, it was dry and empty. At least here there were trees, their leaves rustling gently.

Aewelir did not dare to break the silence with her voice, but she lifted her flute and played. The sound echoed brightly off the buildings. A seagull lifted its head to scold at her, but otherwise there was no answer.

She let her eyes pass over the expanse of marble, white on white. There! Through a gap in the opposite colonnade, she spied the glimmer of the sea. Maicáne had spoken of her lord’s ships and his pride in building them, of the ship-builders and sailors who thronged the bustling harbor. With new energy, she ran lightly across the deserted square, up the steps, and through the colonnade. She stood atop another flight of marble steps; from here, she could see the harbor of Vinyamar laid out below her like a bowl.

The harbor was deserted. She looked frantically up and down the shore, but no ships lay at anchor off the cape, no sails were visible on the sea. She made her way down to the beach and wandered aimlessly over the sand dunes, feeling the wind tug at her hair. She raised her flute again and played the songs Maicáne loved best, the teasing melody that called Maicáne to find her among the reeds. No one came to her, no one demanded to know what she was doing there. Only a flock of gulls wheeled by overhead, their plaintive cries seeming to mock her solitude. The Noldor came to Middle-earth over the Great Sea, Maicáne had said. Had they all taken their ships and gone back there? She stared out at the blue smudge of the horizon. The vast sea kept heaving up and down, up and down, until it made her dizzy. She stood with her gaze fixed on the waves until the sun sank down and the sky darkened.

The River Finds the Sea

An unexpected meeting at the Havens of Sirion.

Surprise, I remembered this fic exists! :) It will end happily, but not yet. This is a sad and angry chapter.

Written for the femslashficlets Language of Flowers prompt table challenge: lilac, meaning “one’s first love, reminders of an old flame.” And the following prompts from B2MeM 2019 Bingo:

Color Burst 3 - Yellow: Coward (O66)
Emotions: Pain (B14)
Of The Sea: Fishing-net (G57)
The Late, Great Mary Oliver: “Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are headed home again” (B12)

Read The River Finds the Sea

Aewelir lay on her back among the rushes with eyes half-closed. She could try to pretend that it was her own rushes, but it was no good. The crashing of ocean waves where Sirion met the Sea was not the same as the lapping of the water in Lake Linaewen; there was the smell of salt and fish instead of fragrant pines and damp earth, and even the songs of the birds were different. The lands around Lake Linaewen were no longer safe, but still she missed her home fiercely. Her reed flute was clutched in her hand, but today she had no heart to play it.

She heard the honking of geese and opened her eyes to look up at the blue sky. A flock of geese was passing overhead, flying in perfect formation. They were going north. With a sudden surge of envy, she wondered if they would pass by the lakeshore where she once wandered. Perhaps the lands under Morgoth’s sway were still safe for creatures with wings.

The geese were gone into the blue distance, and Aewelir reluctantly sat up. She walked listlessly past the piles of dried kelp and bits of driftwood, back towards the town. She nodded politely as she passed a group of Elvish fisherwomen, gossiping with their heads bent together as they mended their nets.

“Did you hear?” one fisherwoman was saying to another in the dialect of the Falathrim, while her hands skillfully twisted and tied the net’s cords. “Another group of Noldor refugees—”

Aewelir quickened her pace so that she would not hear more. When she first came to the Havens of Sirion, the town that was a refuge and gathering-place for so many lost and scattered people, she had nursed a secret, foolish hope that perhaps Maicáne would drift here too. She had kept her ears open for rumors, eagerly scanned the faces of the newcomers. But Maicáne was never there. At last it became too painful, and Aewelir resolutely closed her ears to any news. Maicáne would not come here, and most likely she had forgotten Aewelir centuries ago.

She entered the town and walked listlessly through the marketplace. It stank of fish. Suddenly she missed her home so much she couldn’t bear it. Aewelir lifted her flute to her lips and played softly, half-closing her eyes. She let herself walk in a memory of her lakeshore, the swaying reflections of the pines in the clear water.

Suddenly, Aewelir heard her name called. She looked up, slowly coming out of her reverie. Maicáne stood before her. Maicáne’s armor was battered and scorched, blackened as if by smoke. The badge of a leaping fountain shone clear, picked out in tiny diamonds; but some of the diamonds were missing and others grimy with dried blood. She had never seen Maicáne’s armor less than immaculate. What could possibly have happened—?  

Aewelir felt a sudden rush of emotions, too many things at once. Longing and grief and anger and relief and fear and betrayal, and she still ached to fling her arms around Maicáne and hold her. How dare Maicáne, how dare she still make Aewelir feel those things?

Maicáne slowly reached out for her. Aewelir frowned at her and stepped back, holding her flute between them like a barrier. “You left,” she accused.

Maicáne looked down. “I—” she began. “Aewelir, I—”

Aewelir had never seen her be hesitant, stumbling over her words. She did not know what to think. Before she could form an answer, someone else was pushing his way through the crowd to Maicáne’s side. A strange man, a Noldo she didn’t know, in the same armor as Maicáne and with the same badge.

“Maicáne!” he greeted her, laughing. Aewelir didn’t like the way he clapped his hand on Maicáne’s shoulder. He spoke in Quenya, too fast for her to follow. Aewelir only caught the word “run.”

Maicáne shook her head distractedly, her eyes fixed on Aewelir, and did not answer.

“Ah,” the Noldo said in sudden realization. “This is your Sinda, the girl from—”

Aewelir stopped trying to follow their Quenya, not hearing what else he said or what Maicáne said in response. Anger and shame were rising in her heart. ‘Your Sinda’? Was that what Maicáne had told them? She turned away abruptly.

Maicáne’s hand grasped her wrist. “Wait,” she said in a shaking voice. “Little bird—”

“Don’t call me that,” Aewelir bit out. She tried vainly to tug her wrist free. Maicáne was stronger than her, and once she had liked that. With a flash of anger, she demanded, “Let go of me!”

Maicáne released her. Aewelir slowly turned around. Maicáne’s Noldo friend was gone, Aewelir did not care where. Maicáne had taken a step back, though she was still looking at Aewelir in that soft, intense way that had once melted her heart. Aewelir did not want to remember; her heart was stinging with anger and pain.

“I’m sorry,” Maicáne said softly. “I was a coward.” She swallowed. “I was afraid to tell you we were leaving. The King forbade it—””

“Then why aren’t you with your king? If you care so much for his commands that you would leave me without a word.”

Something flashed in Maicáne’s eyes. “King Turgon is dead.”

“But there’s some other lord,” Aewelir pressed. She had heard enough in her visits to Vinyamar. “Someone else you follow.”

Maicáne hesitated. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Lady Idril.”

Aewelir blinked hot tears from her eyes. “Then go follow your Lady Idril! I don’t want you to speak to me or come near me.” She whirled around and ran, wanting only to get away. Maicáne called her name, but this time she would not listen.