Song of Lake Linaewen by Zdenka

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)

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.